


Search Engine Obfuscation

by WellTemperedClavier



Category: Daria (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humor, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 13:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17623271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WellTemperedClavier/pseuds/WellTemperedClavier
Summary: Having survived Raft, Daria faces the indignities and tribulations of the working world. Specifically, the world of search engine optimization and Internet marketing. This is a sequel to High School Never Ends, but you don't need to read that to understand this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**  
  
_Maybe a cubicle will be better than a classroom._  
  
Daria didn’t really believe it. Still, the thought offered some comfort as she took the elevator up to her interview. Stupid to believe it’d be any real improvement, but her mother had been clear: apply to grad school, or get a job.  
  
After enduring four years of Raft, grad school was no longer an option.  
  
The elevator shuddered to a stop, and she stepped out into another beige-carpeted hallway, the colors bleached and ghastly in the cheap fluorescent lighting. Squaring her shoulders, she walked until she reached Suite #205. A paper taped to the door served as a sign, “WebVision 2.0” written on it with bold red letters.  
  
“How professional,” she said. Squaring her shoulders, she remembered her roommate’s advice: stay businesslike, don’t snark, and act interested.  
  
Businesslike she could do, and the snark she’d keep to herself. Acting interested? Aye, there was the rub. She’d deserve an Oscar if she pulled it off. Visible disinterest had sunk all her other interviews.  
  
_It’s either this or more college. At least the working world will irritate you in new and interesting ways._  
  
She opened the door and entered narrow workroom, with computers and monitors piled up like electronic henges on the battered metal tables. Greasy sunlight shone through a window on the opposite end, the smoggy Boston summer in full array beyond the glass. A doorway to the right opened the way to the rest of the office.  
  
Poking her head through, she saw a slightly more organized workroom occupied by a frazzled twenty-something woman tapping away at her keyboard, her blue eyes fixed on the screen.  
  
“Excuse me?” Daria said.  
  
The woman’s hands jumped up from the keys and she looked up at the new arrival.  
  
“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry! I wasn’t expecting you so soon, I promise he’ll be right out to meet you, and we really, really appreciate your business! Can I get you some coffee—wait, we’re out, uh, can I get you some water? From the water cooler? I can make it hot water, so that it’s kind of like drinking coffee!”  
  
She grinned, her teeth pressed together so tightly that they looked ready to break.  
  
“Uh, you might have me confused with someone else. I’m here for the interview.” Already, this looked bad.  
  
“Oh!” The woman exhaled with relief. “Thank goodness. You’re, uh…” she trailed off, looking at a paper on her desk.  
  
“Daria Morgendorffer.”  
  
“Daria Morgendorffer! You’re the student, right? From Raft?” Her nasal Midwestern twang stabbed the eardrums.  
  
_Don’t snark_. “Yeah, I just graduated.”  
  
“Okay, well let me see if everything’s ready—my name’s Linda, by the way.”  
  
Linda practically jumped up from her seat and to a nearby doorway through which Daria heard the sound of a busy keyboard.  
  
“The interviewee is here!”  
  
“Show her in.”  
  
Daria’s skin crawled when she heard the voice, an unctuous timber squirming beneath the authoritative tone. She knew the voice but couldn’t place it.  
  
“Come on in!” Linda said.  
  
The freckled Howdy-Doody face and rictus grin of Charles Ruttheimer III waited for her on the other end.  
  
“Upchuck?”  
  
She blurted out the old nickname without thinking. His grin hardened, beady eyes turning down to his desk as his shoulders scrunched up. The tension vanished a moment later, and he stood up to extend his hand.  
  
“Miss Morgendorffer! Yes, it is I,” he proclaimed, as florid as ever, “older and hopefully a bit wiser. Would you rather I call you Daria?” The last comment ended on a plaintive note.  
  
“I’d rather you jumped out that window.”  
  
Upchuck raised his skinny arms in surrender. He’d at least abandoned the plaid patterns of his high school days, opting for muted solid colors.  
“I know, I know,” he said, sounding almost normal for once, “I am sorry, Miss Mor—er, Daria—for being like that. I was young, callow, and stupid.”  
  
“Was?”  
  
“I’m trying to get better!”  
  
Daria shook her head. The whole episode felt like the world deliberately insulting her. “You must have seen my resume, so you knew I’d be here.”  
  
“Well, sure. I need a writer. Not just any writer, mind you," he said, raising his eyebrows, "but someone who can be the Shakespeare of Internet copywriting!”  
  
“You want me to write in Elizabethean English?”  
  
“Only if the client requests it.” A smarmy grin spread across Upchuck’s freckled face, the same gargoyle-look he had in high school. “And if they do, you'd be the person to do it. My point is, I know that you’re good. Better than good; amazing.”  
  
“Considering that I don’t have a single published story to my name, I’d say you’re getting a little ahead of yourself.” Daria narrowed her eyes; behind the gushy praise was someone who just wanted to use her. “I’ve already wasted enough time here. I’m leaving.”  
  
“Wait!” Upchuck slid out from his chair and got on his knees. “Give me ten seconds to win you over.” The smile was gone, his eyes focused.  
  
“You get five seconds, and I’m counting down. Five…”  
  
“Most of the applicants I get barely know how to write—”  
  
“Four…”  
  
“You were the best writer in Lawndale High, bar none—”  
  
“Three…”  
  
Upchuck started to fidget. “It’d be an honor to have you on my team—“  
  
“Two. And considering how well your attempts at flattery worked in high school, you have to be really dense to think it’ll work here. One…”  
  
“I need a competent writer, I know you fit the bill, and I’ll pay!”  
  
For the first time in Upchuck’s life, he looked and sounded genuine.  
  
“Come on,” Daria said, “it can’t be that hard to find someone who can string a few words together. And you weren’t a bad writer, from what I remember.”  
  
“I’ve some skill in that area, but alas, no time.” Already the drama was creeping back into his voice. “There are two-dozen clients demanding content as we speak. I’m finished if I can't get it to them by the end of the month.”  
  
“And why is that my problem?”  
  
“You want a job, right? Internet marketing is a growth industry, Daria. This could be the start of something grand.”  
  
Seeing her frown, he dropped the act. “At least, it’ll be the start of a steady paycheck.”  
  
Daria sighed. Not much time remained. Her paltry savings account dwindled by the day. A month longer, and she’d either have to give in and look for grad programs, or go back home to Lawndale in defeat.  
  
Going back to Lawndale likely meant getting dragooned into her mom’s law firm, or one of her dad’s client’s companies. Boston’s charms meant little to Daria, but nothing waited for her back home.  
  
Upchuck was still on his knees. The whole scene staggered belief. Her outburst would have cost her the job anywhere else. Perhaps that accounted for something.  
  
“Okay, Up—Charles. I’ll work for you. But I’m leaving the moment you say, try, or do anything weird.”  
  
Charles stood up, and nodded. “That’s completely fair. Hopefully, I can prove to you that I’ve become a new and better person. Linda!” he called, thrusting a bony index finger in the air, “Get the paperwork for our new employee!”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**  
  
“Whoa, whoa, hold on: you took the job?” Jane sounded almost offended.  
  
Daria shifted the phone to her other ear as she settled onto the worn sofa in her living room. Red from the waning sunset colored the night-bruised sky outside her window.  
  
“I don’t think I have much of a choice,” Daria said. “At least now I’ll be getting—barely—enough income to pay rent.”  
  
“He was pretty weird guy,” Jane said. “Are you sure this isn’t some kind of scam?”  
  
“I guess I’ll find out. It’s been four years since I’ve seen him—he had to have grown up a bit, right?”  
  
“Hopefully.” Jane didn’t sound hopeful.  
  
In retrospect, Daria still wasn’t sure why she’d accepted Charles’s offer. Common sense advised against having anything to do with him. Maybe she’d just been surprised to hear him say something genuine, to at last drop the florid persona.  
  
Kevin, after all, hadn’t turned out to be awful. Thick, but decent. Though he’d actually been decent enough back in high school; the same could not be said for Charles.   
  
Thinking back to some of her own deeds, Daria wondered if it could be said for her.  
  
“It’s not my first choice, but it’s better than just giving in," Daria admitted.  
  
“How long has WebVision 2.0 been around?” Jane asked. “And what happened to 1.0?”  
  
“There never was a 1.0—the 2.0 is just marketing speak. Makes it sound more ‘cutting-edge’ or something.”  
  
“So Upchuck’s being as honest as always?”  
  
Jane had a point. “I’ll be dealing with a lot of bullshit whether I go to grad school or get a job. At least this way I’ll get paid for it.”  
  
“Can’t argue with moolah, I guess.”  
  
“The company’s been around for a few years,” Daria continued. “He must have started it when he was still in college. There's hardly anyone there. Just him, an overworked secretary, and now me. He has a sales team, but they work off-site.”  
  
“What exactly will you be doing there?”  
  
“Content writing and SEO," Daria said.  
  
“Which means?”  
  
“SEO stands for search engine optimization. It’s what websites use to become more visible.” Daria paused, and wondered if that really explained anything.  
  
“I’m not sure I follow.”  
  
Daria girded herself for the explanation. She’d known about SEO before the interview, though Charles had expanded on her knowledge.   
  
“Pretend you’re a plumber,” Daria said.  
  
“Huh, not the sort of cleavage I like to show, but okay.”   
  
“You want it so that when someone types ‘plumber’ in Google, they’ll find your website, and not a competitor’s. For this to happen, your website needs to be in the first ten results, since no one ever looks at the second page.” Upchuck—or Charles—had stressed that fact during the interview.  
  
“Can’t say that I ever have,” Jane said.  
  
“Exactly. To get on the first ten results, you have to be a page that Google likes. SEO turns your page into something that Google will like.”  
  
“Oh, I get it: you’re giving makeovers to people so that they’ll be more popular. Maybe you should get Quinn in on this.”   
  
_Oh God, she’s right_. “What I do is less about coordinating an outfit and more about link-building,” Daria said. “Though yes, there is a similarity.”  
  
“What does Google like?” Jane asked. “Scrunchies? Pastel nail polish?”  
  
“A good reputation. Having a site that’s regularly updated, that has links to other reliable sites.”   
  
“Okay, so what you wear isn’t as important as who you hang out with. Huh, looks like high school really did prepare you for the real world.”   
  
“Don’t remind me.”  
  
“Where does content writing come in?”  
  
Daria paused before speaking, gathering up everything she knew. “Google also judges websites by the quality of content. Sometimes this just means putting keywords in the right places—keywords are search terms. So, going back to the plumber example, ‘discount plumbing’ might be a relevant keyword.  
  
“Part of my job will be making sure that relevant keywords are in the website’s code—that lets search engines know that it’s relevant. I’ll also be writing blog posts and articles for clients.”  
  
“All right, well it sounds like you have a real job. Congratulations.”  
  
“Yeah.” Daria sighed. “I have sort of mixed feelings about this. Going from college to work is just going from one rat race to another.”  
  
“You never really seemed like you were champing at the bit to be the best student at Raft.”  
  
“At least it’ll be a different kind of rat race. Thinking back to Raft doesn’t bring up many good memories.”   
  
“Hey, the important thing is you’re past that.”  
  
“What about you?” Daria asked. “Get more work done on your portfolio?”  
  
“Ugh, barely. Between this and the job and George there barely seems like there’s time to do anything.”  
  
“Uh huh,” Daria said, a slyness creeping into her tone, “and when am I going to meet this George?”  
  
“Sooner rather than later. We’re practically joined at the hip now. Life at BFAC had some ups and downs, but meeting him was really awesome. You’d like him; he’s really, uh, sarcastic and smart.” Jane faltered a bit at the last few words.  
  
“A winning combination. Are you still bringing him along next Friday?"  
  
"Of course!"  
  
"I’d like to meet the reason I haven’t seen you for the past few months.” Daria was curious about him; Jane never talked about him at length, but not a conversation went by without at least some mention.   
  
“Hey, don’t blame this all on him. My work demands way more time than he does. Anyway yeah, I could probably bring him over, or something. Or it can just be us.”  
  
There was an uncomfortable pause as Daria tried to think of a response. “Whichever.”  
  
“Anyway, I need to get some work done on my oil painting tonight. The thing’s due this weekend. After that, I can let some other project take over my life.”  
  
“All right, good luck.”  
  
“Thanks!”  
  
The phone clicked. The sun had set, leaving the apartment in darkness and silence. Daria waded through the shadows and flipped the nearby light switch. Sudden illumination revealed the drab furniture and empty spaces.   
  
It was Friday night, and Daria had nothing to do.  
  
Daria’s thoughts drifted back to her time at Raft. Memories of classes and students muddled together in a gray fog. Only Jane and a few others stood out, but life, work, and love already pulled them away. George’s arrival five months back just hastened the process, an already scarce Jane growing scarcer by the week. Both of Daria's roommates lived for work, so she rarely saw them.  
  
WebVision 2.0 at least gave Daria chance to move on, to build up her skill set and move on to something else.  
  
And what might that something else be?  
  
Mulling it over for a few moments, she realized she had no idea. Regardless, she’d need a paycheck.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**  
  
By the time she’d graduated, Daria knew how to write a literary paper without having read all the literature in question. Doing so was mostly about figuring out how to torture the text into making the point she wanted. Bored professors skimmed the results and gave out passing grades like candy.  
  
Writing seven 300-word informative articles about roofing proved much harder. She had one workday to do it, with little more than an hour for each article. Failure meant the loss of a client, and the premature end of her career.  
  
Daria collected her thoughts as she stared at the screen.   
  
_What do I know about roofing?_  
  
The mocking blank of the word processor’s window stared back at her.  
  
 _I know zilch._  
  
She looked at the keyword list: “roof repair”, “roofing tiles”, “roof shingles”, “slate tiles”, “rain gutters”, “wooden roofs”, and “Cleveland roof repair”. Charles expected one article per keyword. The first and last both involved roof repair, so that probably made it a good place to start.  
  
Her dad had tried his hand at amateur roof repair a few times, going in with gusto and fleeing with a storm of curse words. She’d have to do actual research.  
  
Going online, she Googled “roof repair”. Ads inundated her. Anxiety mounted as she clicked on result after another. Fleeting sentences offered hints, but nothing concrete. At most, she’d get a paragraph out of it.  
  
 _Shouldn’t an actual roofer be doing this?_  
  
She leaned back in her chair. Picking up her mug, she sipped the sour black coffee. At least WebVision 2.0 didn’t charge for that.  
  
 _Real roofers are probably too busy fixing roofs._  
  
Changing her strategy, she searched for “roof repair advice”. This conjured up actual information on the subject. Now, she just needed to sort the good information from the bad.  
  
Daria clicked the first result.  
  
“Roof repair is stressful work,” the article said, “which is why my advice is to always start off by drinking a six-pack. Takes a lot of the tension out of the job, believe you me.”  
  
Shaking her head, she clicked back and checked the next, which led to list of legitimate-sounding roofing safety tips. It was a start.  
  
Dozens of websites flitted across her screen for the next hour, Daria’s mind tabulating, analyzing, and memorizing as her fingers flew across the keys. New mental connections formed as she learned the dos, the don’ts, and the in-betweens of roofing. Minutes burned away as the word processor screen filled up in fits and starts, an authoritative tone applied to a subject she barely knew. The clock gave her no time to doubt.  
  
And at once, she was finished. Seven articles lined up in a row after seven hours of typing and researching, her half-hour lunch a brief interruption. The new knowledge hovered around her brain, touching but not really settling in, too superficial to really stick.   
  
No longer distracted by work, the doubts jumped in for the kill. For the first time, she wasn’t sure if what she wrote was right. She still didn’t know much about the subject, though Charles had assured her she only needed cursory knowledge.  
  
More bullshit, in other words, but what else could she expect from a marketing job?   
  
Daria wanted to feel the old certainty, to again be the truth-seeker as a young woman, like she’d been all through high school.   
  
She remembered the words of Patricia, her first roommate: college as a networking opportunity for the real world. Daria had dismissed all that, her life an angry rejection of the frantic social climbing, the shameless flattery and dissembling, of the students patting each other on the back in hopes of a few scraps at the corporate table.  
  
Integrity had earned her nothing except a shrinking bank account and a dwindling social circle.   
  
Charles had hired her for her skill. No flattery was involved—quite the opposite. She’d been polite but cool all through the other interviews, the managers expecting some bright young thing eager to make a mark, and instead getting her. At least WebVision 2.0 didn’t expect a masquerade.  
  
Maybe that was the most she could hope for.  
  
*********  
  
For the first time in a while, Daria was nervous. She stood in Charles’s office as he skimmed the first article.  
  
“Another outstanding work from America’s finest copywriter!” he exclaimed, unctuous again, and throwing out his skinny arms.  
  
“It’s not _that_ bad, is it?”  
  
“Au contraire, it’s quite good. Just dumb it down a little bit; the average American reads at a 6th grade level, and your verbiage would be lost on most.”   
  
“So what, no more than three syllables per word?” she asked.  
  
Charles smiled. “You got it. Do that, and you can start uploading the articles.”  
  
“All right. Should I show them to you after I edit them?”  
  
“No need, I trust you to do a good job.”  
  
Daria finished a bit after 5:00. She sat at her desk a few moments longer, the buzz of coffee and long hours fading to a well-earned weariness that settled into her bones. No homework or term papers waited in the night hours; only the quiet of her room and the pages of old books.  
  
She’d done it without so much as an iota of networking or self-advertisement. No yammering voices or insipid conversations. Just skill.  
  
Best of all, she was getting paid.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**  
  
The work didn’t lighten up. A backlog of unwritten articles stretched out before her, but she kept at it. Daria educated herself on HVAC repair, bail bonds, personal injury law, plastic molding, CNC machinery, public storage, moving services, stump removal, and more. Everything she learned she put to paper, in easy-to-read keyword-rich content.  
  
Only Charles’s grandiloquence remained from the old days, the sleaziness and lechery shorn away by time. Daria saw little of him or Linda. Hours burned away as she typed, and she forgot her troubles.  
  
The weekend actually meant something. Each hour was sweet, sharp and distinct for its leisure.  
  
She'd earned every one.  
  
Monday morning brought a new client: Duquesne and Associates, a personal injury law firm. Apparently, ambulance chasers needed SEO as much as anyone else.  
  
"Mr. Duquesne is a _priority_ client!" read Charles's email. "He expects seven content pieces by noon, and insists on personally reviewing each one for accuracy. I seem to recall that your mother is a lawyer, so you already have some familiarity with his industry. I do not exaggerate when I say that the future of this company may well depend on Mr. Duquesne's continued patronage, so start on this right away."  
  
Daria's hands curled into fists. Yes, mom did work in law, but she didn't specialize in personal injury. She continued reading.  
  
"Unfortunately, I will be meeting with a client (Mr. Harris, of Harris Roofing), and won't be back until later in the day. I know you can do this!"  
  
_Great. Now Upchuck's added Mr. O'Neill's sunny optimism to his many personality flaws._  
  
She glanced at the time: 8:09 am. That gave her slightly less than four hours to do seven articles. For a priority client.  
  
Opening up the word processor, Daria focused on "car accident attorneys", the first keyword. Mom had always talked about her job, back in the day. Early morning meetings, unhelpful clients, Eric calling in at all hours…  
  
None of which helped her write about "car accident attorneys".  
  
Daria got up, walked over to the break room, and refilled her coffee cup. She stood there for a moment, figuring out the best approach. So far, she hadn't been hurt by not knowing about her topics. But now the client wanted to review her work for accuracy.  
  
And lawyers loved finding mistakes. Mom always got a glint in her eye whenever she found a weakness in someone's argument or story. Daria knew that glint well. Quinn probably knew it even better.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Daria walked back to her computer and sat down. Worst case scenario, she failed and got fired. Not a big deal, just a return to the long hours entombed in her apartment, mom and dad nattering on about grad school on the phone…  
  
Her fingers hit the keys.  
  
By 11:00, well into her third cup of coffee, Daria had finished four of the articles. Her hands typed on momentum alone, her brain just along for the ride. Eyes burned, and letters blurred on the screen. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of her face.  
  
She paused. Three more to go, and only an hour in which to do it.  
  
Nowhere to go but forward.  
  
Daria finished the last article as the clock hit 11:49. Seven articles in less than four hours. But she wasn’t done quite yet. She wrote a quick email to Roland, and attached the articles as a .zip file before sending it off.  
  
Exhaustion crashed over her like a wave. She let her arms drop to her sides, and leaned back in her chair. Too tired to even worry about Mr. Duquesne's reaction, she zoned out for a few minutes.  
  
"Daria?"  
  
Linda had stepped into her office, cordless phone in hand and a nervous please-don't-yell-at-me smile on her face.  
  
"Uh, yeah? It's actually about time for my lunch—"  
  
"Mr. Duquesne's on the phone. He's very upset." Linda's shoulders bunched up.  
  
_More effort gone to waste._  
  
"What's the problem?"  
  
"He's on the phone right now. Maybe you could talk to him?"  
  
"Isn't talking to angry customers _your_ job?" Daria asked.  
  
"Well, yeah, it's just that—here!"  
  
Linda put the phone on Daria's desk and darted back into the receptionist's office.  
  
"Hey, you can't—" Daria started. No use. Already, she could hear an angry and elderly voice on the other line. Sighing, she picked up the phone.  
  
"WebVision 2.0, Daria Morgendorffer speaking," she answered, refusing to sound enthusiastic. That was Linda's job, after all.  
  
"What happened to my articles?" Mr. Duquesne fumed.  
  
"I just sent them to you." _Maybe an address mix-up?_  
  
"I know you sent them to me! I don't know this World Wide Web stuff, where are they?"  
  
_They're deep in cyberspace. Give me a moment to put on my VR goggles and I'll hack the mainframe to get them for you._  
  
"They're in file attached to the email that I just sent," she said.  
  
"I know that!"  
  
This was starting to get confusing. "So what's the problem?"  
  
"The problem," he said, his voice getting louder as he spoke, "is that you didn't tell me where they are on my computer!"  
  
"Wait. _On_ your computer?"  
  
"Yes, on my computer, or my Internet! Where did they go?"  
  
"Did you download them?"  
  
"How should I know? I just clicked the button! Where are they on my computer?"  
  
Daria started putting the pieces together. Roland knew so little about computers that he didn't know where downloaded files went.  
  
_Well, I'm sure you know your computer better than I do. Good luck!_  
  
Shaking her head, she pushed her sarcasm to the side. No way was she going to let the morning's work go to waste. She'd typed her fingers to the bone to finish that damn assignment.  
  
"Are you using Windows or Mac?" she asked. Seemed safe enough to rule out Linux.  
  
"I don't know, I'm a lawyer, not a nerd!"  
  
"Does your computer frequently crash, or lock up?"  
  
"Yeah, all the time," he said.  
  
"It's Windows, then." She took off her glasses, shut her tired eyes and massaged them. Didn't this guy have a secretary to take care of this for him? "If you open up My Computer on the Finder, there should be an icon that says 'Downloads'—"  
  
"My computer's already open! And what's a download?" He sounded like he was on the verge of apoplexy.  
  
Daria considered her options. Roland clearly knew nothing about computers, and was too mad to learn. Could she politely tell him to go to hell?  
Considering all the work she'd done, that wasn't an option.  
  
"I'm a busy man!" he shouted.  
  
"If you give me some time," she said, "I can send you directions on how to find downloaded files. On your computer."  
  
"Do that right away!"  
  
He hung up.  
  
Part of her wanted to leave him hanging. But that risked all her effort.  
  
_Wait, am I actually feeling proud of the work I did?_  
  
Not much to be proud of, really. Quickly written articles about a subject she only knew superficially. But as superficial articles went… she didn't think they were bad. She'd seen the awful writing of her peers at Raft, and knew she could do better even in a hurry.  
  
Focusing on the task, she wrote a step-by-step guide on how to find downloaded files, supplementing each step with a screenshot decorated by MS Paint circles and arrows. She also threw in directions on how to unzip a file. Finally, she sent it and hoped it'd be enough.  
  
She clocked out for lunch, and sequestered herself in the break room. A ham sandwich and Josef Roth's _Radetzky March_ kept her occupied. Upon going back to her desk, she saw an email from Roland.  
  
"Found it."  
  
Had he found it because of her directions? Or just stumbled upon the files on his own? She supposed it didn't matter.  
  
Daria took a more leisurely pace for the afternoon, focusing on some less urgent articles for a tile glazing company. The quiet lasted until about 3:30, when Charles came in, lit up with glee.  
  
"Good news! I just got off the phone with Mr. Duquesne. He's quite happy with those articles you wrote."  
  
She resisted the urge to smile. "He'd better be, considering how much effort I put into them. Did he tell you—"  
  
"Yes, he did! He said your directions were concise and easy to follow. You went above and beyond."  
  
Not sure how to respond, Daria just grunted and turned back to her screen.  
  
"Ahem, in all seriousness, thank you. You really did an excellent job."  
  
She shrugged, hoping she wasn't blushing too visibly.  
  
"I'll keep doing one as long as the paychecks keep coming."  
  
"That's the flinty demoiselle I remember! Oh, before I forget: this Friday marks the one-year anniversary of WebVision 2.0! I'll be holding a company dinner over at Tong's, and you're invited."  
  
Charles might have dropped the sleaziness, but that didn't make a dinner with him—or Linda—any more appealing. Luckily, she had an excuse.  
  
"I can't. I'm getting dinner with Jane that night. Yes, the same Jane from Lawndale."  
  
"Ahh, the talented Miss Lane! How's she doing?"  
  
Daria turned to study Charles's expression. It took effort to see him as anything other than a would-be lecher. Creepiness still lurked in his too-wide grin and beady eyes.  
  
"She's fine."  
  
"Good to hear! Anyway, the invitation stands if you change your mind."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
As if she'd ever do that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**  
  
Jane called on Wednesday night.  
  
"Hey, I hate to say this, but I can't make it on Friday. Sorry to spring it on you."  
  
For a moment, Daria didn't know what to say. She hadn't seen Jane for months…  
  
"Daria?"  
  
"Oh. That sucks. What happened?" She struggled to keep her voice steady.  
  
"There was a last minute opening at an art exhibit. The guy they had slated had some kind of medical emergency, and they want me to take his place. Where I’m at right now, I can't really afford to say no. Again, I'm really sorry about this."  
  
"It's alright," she said, even as disappointment seemed to constrict her chest. Couldn't she at least get some time with her friend?  
  
Gulping, she sat down. Stupid to get so worked up about this.  
  
"At least you get the show," Daria said.  
  
"Yeah. I just wish it didn't have to be that day. You know, I can squeeze in some time on the Saturday after next. Is that okay for you?"  
  
It wasn't as if she ever had anything else to do on the weekend. "I'll see if I can fit it between the high-stakes games of baccarat I'm slated to play that day."  
  
Jane chuckled. "Sounds good."  
  
They talked for a while longer before Jane had to go. Putting her phone on her desk, Daria sighed. Another disappointment.   
  
This meant she was free for dinner with Linda and Upchuck.   
  
"Oh, God," she uttered, shaking her head.  
  
The sheer absurdity of the idea galled her. Hadn't college thrown enough idiots her way? Now she had to deal with the ones from high school, too?  
  
Except Charles hadn't really done anything questionable beyond offering her a job. One that she'd taken. And it wasn't as if she'd be alone with him. Linda would be there, too.  
  
Hell, maybe Linda would want the company.  
  
*********  
  
"Thanks again for joining us," Charles said, as the members of WebVision 2.0 sat down at a polished white table.  
  
Tong's Noodle Hut didn't look like anything special. Just another generic Chinese restaurant crammed into a linoleum-floored box that had once contained something equally generic. The cheap shopping center eatery as a palimpsest.  
  
Still, she was hungry enough that even MSG-laden noodles sounded appealing.  
  
"It's not like I had anything better to do," Daria said. She noticed Linda frown slightly.  
  
"Linda, I told you that I know Daria from high school, right?"  
  
"I remember," she said.  
  
"Please don't reminisce," Daria said.  
  
"I wouldn't dream of it. I don't think either of us has many fond memories of the old alma mater."  
  
"You can say that again."  
  
"And how was university?" he asked. "Raft, if I'm not mistaken?"  
  
 _Even worse than high school._ "It was okay," she said. She knew better than to overdo negativity. "Where did you go?"  
  
"Yale. Alas, I did not graduate."  
  
That was a surprise. "What happened?"  
  
"WebVision 2.0 happened!" Linda said, smiling at her boss.  
  
"Wait, you walked away from Yale to start this company?" Granted, the Ruttheimer family was pretty rich. Charles probably had enough connections through his father to make college networking a formality.  
  
"I walked away from a lot of things. I had a vision. A _WebVision_ , you could say…"  
  
Daria almost warned him off the puns, but held back when she heard Linda giggling.  
  
Charles's unctuous grin faded. "The truth is, I had a… disagreement with my dad. He cut me off, which meant no tuition. Luckily, I'd accrued some technical skills during my sophomore—and final—year, so here we are."  
  
"A disagreement?"  
  
"He was grooming me to take over Ruttheimer Exports. I wanted to find my own path. Dad didn't take this as well as I'd hoped."  
  
Daria hid her surprise. Upchuck actually showing bravery?   
  
"That's impressive," she managed to say.  
  
Seeing Linda and Charles both take on guarded expressions, she added: "I mean that."  
  
Charles relaxed. "Thanks. I'll admit I didn't handle the disagreement as well as I could have, but well, here we are."  
  
"How did you get the money to set up WebVision 2.0?" Daria asked.  
  
"Freelance web design, SEO, and a few other tricks of the trade saw me through. Everything's riding on WebVision 2.0, of course."  
  
The food arrived. Daria helped herself to her plate of rice and kung pao chicken while Charles and Linda started talking about a prospective client.  
  
Here she was, with her 3.8 GPA and English degree from Raft, working for a college dropout. Not just any dropout, but Upchuck, who'd spent high school combining sleaze and bathos in new and embarrassing ways.   
  
She had to admit it felt like a good way of showing up Raft. Most of her classmates had networked and begged their way into high-paying do-nothing jobs throughout the corporate world. But she did it her own way, head held high. So what if Charles didn't have a degree? He did his own thing, and didn't expect her to suck up to him.  
  
Degrees were overrated.  
  
Linda excused herself to go to the restroom. Looking across the table to Daria, Charles smiled. His smiles looked almost natural, she noted.  
  
"I hope you find dinner to your liking. Humble though it may be, this simple fare represents—"  
  
"Hold it," Daria said. "I've heard you talk to clients on the phone. You sound normal. But when you talk to me or Linda, you take on the same pervert-with-a-thesaurus approach you tried in high school."  
  
She wondered if she was treading on dangerous ground, but decided she didn't care. She hadn't kowtowed to the social climbers in Raft, and she wouldn't start now.  
  
If her comment bothered him, he didn't show it. "You certainly haven't changed."  
  
"I don't do change."  
  
"Well, if you _must_ know… I enjoy talking like this." His shrug was almost apologetic. "Linda doesn't seem to mind. And it's not as if you're shy about showing off your vocabulary."  
  
"I don't take it to the same extent as you." She looked down at her plate. Maybe she'd been a bit harsh. "It's not a big deal or anything. I was just curious."  
  
He smiled, and that time it looked genuine. "My dad's home library had a lot of early 20th century pulp fiction. All that purple prose had an effect."  
  
"A lot of Lovecraft, Rohmer, and Burroughs?" she guessed.  
  
"Yes. Edgar Rice _and_ William S!"  
  
Daria stifled a laugh. "You read Bill Burroughs as a kid? That explains a disturbing amount about you."  
  
"Well, I didn't really understand his work. But I knew I wasn't supposed to be reading it, which was reason enough to check it out."  
  
"For what it's worth," Daria said, "I used to try out Shakespearean insults on my seventh grade teachers."  
  
"That must have been something to see."  
  
"All I did was get my parents in trouble. I can't say I didn't have some fun doing it, though."  
  
Linda returned, and conversation turned back to business. Daria mostly stayed quiet; SEO still didn't interest her all that much.   
  
It was a short Friday night. But when Daria returned to her apartment at half past eight, the place no longer felt like a prison.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**  
  
A few weeks later, the rhythm of office life felt as natural as the seasons.  
  
She came in every morning, grabbed a cup of coffee, and wrote or researched articles. Noon arrived, and with it, a quick lunch. A second cup of coffee saw her through the afternoon's labor, and a third perked her up for the commute home. And then dinner followed by a few quiet hours of reading, lost to the world around her.  
  
Time zipped by. The work she did wasn’t fun, exactly, but it kept her occupied. She saw the work of other SEO companies posted on blogs across the Internet, and knew hers were better. Sometimes she'd sneak in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it reference to history or literature—never anything major, but enough to add a personal touch.  
  
So far, no one had complained.  
  
She took on new tasks, like onpage optimization. Charles explained the basics: the right metadata made websites more visible to search engines. This translated to making sure that each image on a client website was labeled with a relevant keyword. Grunt work, but perfect for when her energy started to wane in the later afternoon.  
  
No one bothered her. Charles and Linda both let her do her work. She grabbed lunch with them one blustery Thursday, not talking much but enjoying the proximity. The nice thing about a work friendship was that she knew exactly what they expected of her.  
  
Around her, autumn touched the leaves and set them alight.  
  
Weekends tended to be quiet. She read novels, watched television, took walks. Sometimes she worried that she never wrote in her spare time, but everyone went through the occasional fallow period.  
  
Maybe this was adult life. She didn't mind it. Easy to imagine coasting along this way until she died. Long hours of inactivity in college had sharpened her fears, but work dulled them.  
  
When it came time to meet Jane, Daria headed out to their designated rendezvous point: The Nexus. It had been Jane's idea.  
  
Standing outside the Nexus, the thumping bass so loud that she could feel it outside the walls, Daria wondered if her friend had meant a different place with the same name. Not seeing her, she went inside.  
  
She flinched as percussion rippled through the speakers. How the hell was anyone supposed to talk in this place? Tattooed patrons clustered around a neon-lit bar while twenty-somethings with varicolored hair crashed into each other on the dance floor.  
  
_Maybe I should've kept that navel ring._  
  
Conscious of how much she stood out, Daria took a seat at the edge of the bar. A faint pain manifested in her head, and she massaged her temples.  
  
Minutes passed, with no sign of Jane. Daria decided to order a drink. Alcohol might make the place more tolerable. The bartender gave her a suspicious look when she ordered a martini, but complied. Taking a sip, Daria savored the bitterness. She definitely took after her dad in beverage preference, if not in frequency; this was the first alcohol she'd had since grad night.  
  
The music shifted to some doomy piece probably belonging to a grunge-metal-punk hybrid subgenre so obscure that even Trent wouldn't have heard about it.  
  
She wondered how he was doing.  
  
"Hey, sorry I'm late!"  
  
It took Daria a minute to recognize the woman standing before her. The right half of her scalp was shorn to stubble, and the left dyed purple—but she was still Jane.  
  
Daria looked at Jane for a minute, then to her drink, and then back to Jane.  
  
Jane laughed, and the sight of her bright teeth brought back a million memories.  
  
"I guess the new look might come as a shock!" Jane shouted to be heard over the speakers.  
  
"'Shock' is an understatement," Daria said. Jane laughed again, and Daria wondered if she'd even heard her.  
  
"Hey, that's the only way artists can get attention these days." Jane sat on the barstool next to her. "So what do you think?" She motioned to the teeming club around them.  
  
"It's like what the Zon wants to be when it grows up."  
  
"Yeah, I figured it might remind you of the old days. A friend of mine introduced me to this place a few months ago." She turned to the bartender. "Moscow Mule, please!"  
  
Deafening percussion still bludgeoned her skull. How did anyone stand this?  
  
"Was this friend of yours George?" Daria asked.  
  
"Nah, George is pretty straitlaced. I'm the wild and crazy one in our relationship."  
  
"And it looks like you're working overtime for that."  
  
Daria remembered how quickly Jane could reorient her personality. Her stints as a cheerleader or a retro-40s enthusiast hadn't lasted long, but they'd seemed comprehensive.  
  
_But who am I to judge? I decided to conform to the workplace. It's just that damn easy._  
  
She realized she'd been staring into her drink while Jane talked, her words lost in the music. Daria nodded as if she agreed, though for all she knew Jane could be asking her opinion on pastel-colored scrunchies.  
  
She had the sinking feeling that nobody else in the Nexus heard their friends either.  
  
By that point, Daria only heard every third word coming out of Jane's mouth. Brutalizing noise conspired with the dizziness of alcohol to create a growing sense of nausea.  
  
"Can we go somewhere else?" Daria asked.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Can we go somewhere else? It's too loud." Each word got harder to shout.  
  
"Oh, okay. Is it bothering you that much?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
They paid for their drinks and escaped. Daria exhaled once she reached the cool night air, noise reduced to the acceptable buzz of traffic and revelers.  
  
"Sorry about that," Jane said.  
  
"Why did you pick that place?"  
  
Jane shrugged. "I figured it'd be like hanging out at the Zon again. You even said it was like the Zon."  
  
"The Zon was never that noisy."  
  
"Oh, it was. I think your ears are just getting sensitive in your old age."  
  
"My eardrums are calluses at this point."  
  
Jane snickered. "Come on, I know a quieter place a few blocks down."  
  
Already a bit light-headed from the martini, Daria followed Jane as she talked about getting a contract for a public sculpture in BFAC.  
  
"It's basically nepotism, but eh, I'll take it," she said.  
  
Their journey ended at a smaller and mercifully quieter pub called 5 O' Clock. Sitting at the bar, they ordered a few glasses of wine. Jane started asking about WebVision 2.0.  
  
"So you've _gotta_ have some horror stories about Upchuck."  
  
"I wish I did," Daria said. "As much as it surprises me, I think he's turned a new leaf. He's never hit on me. As far as I can tell, he hasn't hit on my coworker, either."  
  
"Que surprise. I still don't trust him," Jane said, drawing out the I. "He was a seriously sleazy guy."  
  
Daria shrugged. "I don't actually talk to him all that often. Charles spends most of his time in his personal office making deals."  
  
"Drug deals at least? Maybe a scam or two?"  
  
"No, just promising every plumber, HVAC technician, and bail bondsman in Boston that he can raise their website's rankings."  
  
"False promises, at least? Come on, I'm dying here."  
  
"No! We do good work. Which isn't that surprising when you consider how terrible most other SEO writers are."  
  
Jane smiled. "Yeah, I figure you'd be a big fish in a small pond there."  
  
"It suits me."  
  
The wine arrived, and Daria downed a mouthful. The alcohol seemed to shoot straight to her cheeks, already warm and red from the martini.  
  
Daria went on to describe the company's origins.  
  
"It's more than I expected from Upchuck," she finished, immediately regretting her use of the old nickname. In fairness, he'd deserved it back then.  
  
"Huh, so he's a real go-getter after all."  
  
"More of one than me," Daria said. "And he's a college drop-out."  
  
"Don't let that bother you. Besides, you always figure out how to get what you want."  
  
Something in Jane's tone hadn't sounded very friendly. "What are you talking about?"  
  
"Just that you're resourceful." Jane sipped her wine. "How's the salary, by the way?"  
  
Daria shook her head as if to clear it. The drink was getting to her. "The salary's enough for rent and food. Lucky for me, I'm too boring to spend it on anything else. I spend most Saturday nights reading library books."  
  
"I'm working most Saturday nights, either at the record store or on a project." Jane raised her glass. "To adulthood?"  
  
"To adulthood," Daria confirmed, and the glasses clinked.  
  
Daria drank some more wine. Nerves tensed by long hours seemed to unspool as warmth spread through her body. Things didn't seem so bad. Jane looked weird—but she was still Jane. 5 O' Clock could be their new Pizza King.  
  
"How's Trent doing?"  
  
Jane snorted. "Trying to break into Raleigh's thriving gothabilly scene. He's barely getting by. Can you believe he actually called last week and asked me for money?"  
  
Daria thought back to the years the Jane and Trent spent in the old Lane house. Their situation had always reminded her a bit of Claudia and Jamie in _From the Mixed-up Files of Basil E. Frankweiler_. Somehow they survived, always standing by each other.  
  
"He's lucky you can bail him out," Daria said, her lids getting heavy.  
  
"Are you kidding me? I can barely get by on what I have! Trent's on his own this time."  
  
"Oh." Not sure what to say, Daria took another sip. Her body felt out of balance, somehow, as if she'd fall if she leaned too far in any direction. To avoid this, she planted her elbows on the bar.  
  
"Can your parents help him?"  
  
"Who knows?" Jane's shoulders slumped. "Dad's off photographing monasteries in Ethiopia, and mom's living in a commune out in Oregon. She told me they're planning on separating—and I'm wondering, why even bother? We've never been a family!"  
  
Jane rubbed her forehead. "Sorry. You probably don't want to hear me whine about my personal problems."  
  
"It's okay," Daria said. "You whine pretty well. Your complaints still have that breezy and confident Jane style."  
  
Jane blinked. "I guess I'll take that as a compliment—whoa, Daria, do you have any idea how red your face is right now? You're practically glowing."  
  
Daria glanced at her nearly empty glass. Hadn't they just arrived? She felt like she was floating, and imagined all Boston's crowds spinning around her and lifting her into the heavens.  
  
"I'm okay," Daria said. "It's mostly physiological."  
  
"As getting drunk tends to be."  
  
"What I mean is…" Daria paused, gathering her thoughts together. "Mentally, I'm aware enough to be a good conversation partner."  
  
"You are an adorable drunk, Daria."  
  
She ordered a third glass. One by one, her other senses drowned in the wine's sour-bitter taste. More laughter from Jane.  
  
Then she flew up the nighttime streets, basking in the soft glow of streetlamps and storefronts, guided by careful hands.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**  
  
Daria awoke to the worst headache of her life.  
  
It was a headache that had somehow spread to her entire body. Every bone and organ groaned in protest as she cracked open her eyes, the dim light as bright as the surface of the sun.  
  
"Oh, God," she muttered.  
  
The world blurred to the point of incomprehensibility. Where were her glasses? Cursing, she groped through the fog of color and light, her stomach still roiling with nausea.  
  
"Well, look who's back among the living!" came Jane's voice, her cheer muted by low volume.  
  
"Living might be too strong a word for it," Daria managed to say. Searching hands found fabric, and then…a cushion?  
  
"Here, you probably want these," Jane said.   
  
The familiar texture of her glasses pressed against Daria's palm, and she greedily put them back on. The world made sense again.   
  
She lay on a narrow bed shoved into the corner of a cramped bedroom. Jane stood next to her, wrapped up in a shabby bathrobe. At the foot of the bed was a light-up desk where tubes and vials of paint stood in formation. Easels and partially finished sculptures fought for space near the door.  
  
Nor was she the room's only occupant. A round-faced blonde snored from her place on a mattress heaped onto the floor.  
  
"That's my unofficial roommate," Jane whispered. "Technically she's not supposed to be staying here, but she pitches in for the rent, so I kind of need her."  
  
Daria nodded, and immediately regretted the motion.  
  
"What happened last night?"  
  
"You got drunk!" She emphasized the last word the same way a proud parent would when talking about a child winning a contest. "It's a whole new side of your personality. All of a sudden you were pulling these cute guys onto the dance floor, leading the whole tavern in a rousing rendition of 'John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt'—"  
  
"Please tell me you're joking. I honestly can't tell right now."  
  
"Relax. Mostly you just talked about high school. You didn't look like you were in any shape to walk home, so I guided you back to my place. We chatted for a few hours and then I tucked you in."  
  
"Thanks. Sorry for the trouble."  
  
Jane waved it off. "Just like before, my place is yours."  
  
"We won't wake her up, will we?" Daria asked, pointing to the other woman.  
  
"Vicky? Nah, she could sleep through an earthquake. I've spent entire nights working on projects while she snoozed. You feel up to some breakfast?"  
  
"I think I feel up to going back to sleep for the next ten years."  
  
"Trust me, I've been in your shoes a few times before. Breakfast will do you good."  
  
Moving at what felt like an inch a minute, Daria slowly got out of bed. She still wore her clothes from the last night, the fabric made stale from dry sweat. Bitter cold seemed to emanate from the apartment's cement floor, and she winced when her socked feet touched the surface.  
  
Jane led her into what she took to be the apartment's main room. A patchwork of threadbare rugs covered the gray floor, while old cardboard boxes and grocery bags piled up in the corners.  
  
"I really hope the landlord fixes the heater," Jane remarked, as she stepped over an abandoned sweater.  
  
"Where did you sleep?" Daria asked.  
  
"Over there," she said, pointing to a brown couch that leaked stuffing from innumerable wounds. "It's actually a lot more comfortable than my bed, believe it or not."  
  
Daria rubbed her head. Dizziness returned full force.  
  
"Here, take a seat. Is cereal okay?"  
  
"And coffee. In fact, the cereal's just optional."  
  
Jane laughed as she walked into the kitchen. Daria leaned back and wished for the pounding in her head to stop. Observing the bleak living space around her, it occurred to her yet again how lucky she was to have a friend like Jane.   
  
Breakfast didn't really make Daria feel better, but Jane assured her that it'd pay off.  
  
"How many people live here?"  
  
"Four, if you include Vicky."  
  
"I hope last night didn't set you back too much." She could offer to cover it. Daria wasn't exactly swimming with cash, but she didn't have as many expenses.  
  
"Nah, it's fine. George always covers me when we go out, so it's not like I'm stretched too thin."  
  
"That's nice of him," Daria said, more focused on the pain in her head.  
  
"He's a sweet guy. Plus, it helps that his family's pretty rich. Not, you know, Tom Sloane rich, but he doesn't need to worry about money. He's actually coming over in a few hours. We're headed off to the Boston B-Movie Gorefest. His treat."  
  
"So I'll finally get to meet him."  
  
"Sure, if you want. In your state, it might be best just to go home and take a long nap. And drink lots of water."  
  
"Are you trying to get rid of me all of a sudden?"  
  
"Oh, don't be like that. But I'm an old hand when it comes to navigating hangovers. The most boring solution is usually the best."  
  
"I don't want to be a third wheel. Just give me some time to compose myself."  
  
"Sure, sure. You want to go back to bed? I do need to work on that sculpture, but I can be quiet about it."  
  
"I think I'm okay sitting here."  
  
Sitting there soon turned into laying there, her knees curled up to her belly in a hopeless attempt to keep the nausea at bay. Not quite asleep, she let the morning pass over her.  
  
She came to at the sound of someone opening the door. Eyelids flickered, and she winced at the brighter light of noon. A shadow filled the doorway, soon revealed as a young man with a thick mop of messy brown hair.  
  
"Oh, sorry, did I wake you up?" he asked.  
  
"Uh, no. Not really. I was just leaving." Daria righted herself into a sitting position, and the effort sapped whatever strength she still had. "You must be George?"  
  
"Yeah. You got me at a disadvantage—wait, you must be Daria!"  
  
That was a surprise. "I am, in fact."  
  
"Jane talks about you all the time—"  
  
"Oh, hey!"  
  
Daria raised her aching head. Jane stood in the doorway, shoulders raised and arms folded, her blue eyes almost feral.   
  
"Guess you two are already acquainted," she said.  
  
"I literally just stepped in—"  
  
Before George could finish, Jane strode over and threw her arms around him, giving him a quick and aggressive kiss.   
  
"You sure seem happy to see me," he said after disengaging.  
  
"Why wouldn't I be?"  
  
Jane glanced at Daria, her expression relaxing a bit as she draped her left arm around George's shoulders. "Me and George are going to get lunch. Do you, uh, want to join us?"  
  
Even through her haze, Daria sensed something off. There was a pleading look in Jane's blue eyes, in the tightness around her mouth.  
  
 _Pleading for what?_  
  
Nothing seemed to make sense in her aching head. "It's okay, I should probably go home," Daria said, noting the relief in Jane's eyes.  
  
"Too bad. Maybe some other time then…"  
  
Standing up, Daria excused herself and grabbed her purse from Jane's room. Walking back out, she gave a hurried goodbye and left the apartment.  
  
"Hey, Daria! Are you feeling okay?" Jane asked, leaning out of the doorway.  
  
Daria relaxed. Jane seemed her normal, concerned self. Always looking out for her. "I'm fine. I just need to take it easy today."  
  
"Remember to drink a lot of water. Uh, call me when you get back home."  
  
"Sure. Have fun."  
  
*********  
  
Daria's hangover had mostly faded by nightfall, only the echo of a headache still rattling around in her skull.  
  
Seeing Jane always felt like a renewal. With her was the only place that Daria really felt herself. So had she just imagined the tension when George arrived? She still remembered the look on Jane's face, like she was asking for help.  
  
Abuse? That seemed unlikely. And it's not like she'd seemed worried the previous night. Just exhausted.  
  
Maybe she was worrying too much. Still, she'd be there if Jane needed her. So far, Jane had helped Daria through her freshman year mental breakdown, took time out of an extremely busy schedule to keep her company…  
  
And how did Jane get that busy schedule? Every day for her meant a new exhibit, a new submission, a million projects in the air all at once and each one pursued as if nothing else existed in Jane's world. Yet other things did exist, and she still made time for them.  
  
Daria used to think that the mere act of writing made her writer, but she no longer believed that. Sure, she was a step above the poseurs who took their laptops to Starbucks, nursing some too-sweet drink and writing maybe one word an hour.   
  
But writing also meant grunt work. It meant going to seminars, and joining groups, and making friends—not just any friends, but useful ones who could connect you to this published author or that agent.  
  
No one could tell her exactly how to do this. Guides both online and off contradicted each other. It all seemed to be about meeting the right people, being in the right place, and writing the right story—luck, in other words.  
  
All that was a world away from Daria Morgendorffer, secluded in her Boston apartment, spinning words into worlds out of sight and out of mind.   
  
Maybe posthumous fame suited her better. She'd never liked the idea of signing books, anyway. Easier to just write and write and then fade out. Leave the networking to an executor, or maybe one of Quinn's hypothetical future children who wanted to ensure that their eccentric spinster aunt went down in history.  
  
At least work distracted her.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**  
  
Daria arrived at the office on Tuesday morning to find an urgent email from her boss.  
  
"Daria," it read. "Barry from the sales team managed to wrangle a VERY promising client late last night: Richard Morgan, the Vitamin King of Northeastern New Hampshire!  
  
"Yeah, I haven't heard of him either. However, he'll pay us good money. Mr. Morgan wants an informative ebook written about a particular cure-what-ails-you vitamin supplement—VitaCleanse A, he calls it. I told him that you're the best writer around. He needs thirty pages done by Thursday. Make this a priority.  
  
"Attached, you'll find a file on VitaCleanse A. That should have the info you need to write an ebook."  
  
Daria sat back in her chair and re-read the email. Thirty pages in three days. Well, Kerouac had hammered out _On the Road_ in a few weeks. Sure, he'd spent years editing the book, but it wasn't as if Charles or Mr. Morgan expected her to test the limits of prose or reinvent the idea of America.  
  
What did she know about vitamin supplements? They always seemed like the sort of junk relegated to late-night infomercials, only crossing over into the waking world when somebody got sick from one.   
  
She sipped her coffee, its harsh and metallic taste scouring her tongue. Linda must have brewed the morning's pot; she never got the mixture right.  
  
Did she really want to do this? To lend her talents to a probable scammer? For a mere $16 per hour?  
  
Daria thought back to the essays she'd written for her old roommate, back in freshman year. That hadn't ended well.  
  
She could say no. But maybe she was overreacting. It wasn't as if dodgy vitamin supplements were really all that worse than a computer illiterate personal injury lawyer.   
  
Opening up the attached file, Daria started to read Mr. Morgan's write-up.  
  
"Vitacleanse A is the ALL NATURAL CHEMICAL FREE vitamin supplement that you need!"  
  
This did not look good.  
  
"I personally created VITACLEANS A as a solution to the parasites and chemicals that stay in our body because of modern pollution. You can CLEANSE yourself with my patented treatment VITACLEANSEA.   
  
"Modern pollutants are KILLING US. The only solution is NATURE. All NATURAL. CHEMICAL FREE. CLEANSE!"  
  
Daria re-read the section just to make sure she hadn't been hallucinating.  
  
"The medical establishment does NOT want you to know about Vita Cleans A! That's because doctors make $$$ off of their treatments that just add more poisons to your body! Feeling sick? Think you should go to a hospital? NOT ON YOUR LIFE! My goal is to warn people about the dangers of modern medicine, and tell them about my PATENTED CLEANSING SOLUTION!"  
  
Daria pushed away from her desk. Vitamins were one thing, but this was another.  
  
 _Does Charles know about this?_  
  
Shaking her head, she stood up and walked over to Charles's personal office. She knocked on the door, and heard a muffled "come in".  
  
Bracing herself, she opened the door and stepped inside.  
  
Charles's office might have originally been intended as a supply closet. His desk took up the majority of the room, leaving only a coffin-sized space for its occupant. Weak light filtered in through a pair of windows encrusted with a mosaic of dirt.  
  
"Ah, Daria, how can I help you?" Charles scooted his chair toward his desk to get enough room to turn around and face her.  
  
"Did you read that attached file?" Daria asked.  
  
"Uh, I may have skimmed it—"  
  
Daria paused, wondering how best to handle this. She thought of her mom's secretary, caught in the endless storm of Helen's demands. Charles gave her a lot of leeway, comparatively speaking.  
  
"This guy spent half the file saying that modern medicine is dangerous, and that we should all use VitaCleanse A—which he can never spell the same way."  
  
Charles spread his hands. "You do run into all sorts in this business—"  
  
"And you're okay with that? Look, I don't really care if some idiot wants to buy a supplement, but can you not see the problem with telling people to avoid doctors?"  
  
His eyes widened at that last bit. "Wait, he specifically says that?"  
  
"And he wants me to say it, too."  
  
"Let me take a look."  
  
Charles swiveled back toward the computer and opened up the file. Daria leaned against the doorway, smiling when he let out a long, low whistle.  
  
 _Yup, it really is that bad._  
  
"Hmm… I would have suggested simply omitting his concerns about the medical establishment, but he does seem rather keen on including them."  
  
"Moral issues aside, we could get in trouble for false advertising."  
  
"No, we wouldn't. But our client might. Here's an idea: what if I called him? We could relate our concerns. Besides, it's easier to advertise for something rather than against it. VitaCleanse A is the star of the show here, not Mr. Morgan's grudge regarding the medical establishment."  
  
Daria nodded. "Sure."  
  
Charles looked up Mr. Morgan's number and picked up the cordless phone. Dialing the number, he switched the mode to speaker.  
  
"Thank you again, Daria, for bringing this to my attention."  
  
She grunted an affirmative as the phone rang. Charles's reaction seemed more motivated by greed—a client sued to oblivion might not have much money left to pay. Still, he'd listened.  
  
"This is Richard Morgan of VitaCleanse A, the solution for cleansing your body of all parasites!" came a rough voice on the other end.  
  
"Hey, Richard! This is Chuck, from WebVision 2.0. How're you doing?"  
  
"Huh? Oh, you're that Internet geek. What do you want?"  
  
"Just to touch base with you about the ebook. My copywriter's already started on it, but we had a few questions. She's here with me." He motioned to Daria.  
  
"Hi," she said.  
  
"Questions? I already spent too much time explaining myself! Now it's your turn to do work for me!"  
  
"Totally, totally. So I'll admit I don't know a whole lot about alternative medicine…"  
  
Daria rolled her eyes. They'd never get any work done this way.  
  
"We have an issue with the way you tell people not to see doctors," she interrupted.   
  
Charles froze mid-word, eyes darting between Daria and the phone.  
  
"I'm trying to protect people from the medical establishment! I guarantee that VitaCleanse A is the best, only all-natural way of restoring health to the human body!"   
  
Mr. Morgan took a deep breath; the tone of his voice made it impossible for Daria to imagine him as anything other than perpetually red-faced.  
  
"I see," she said. "And I trust that VitaCleanse A has undergone all appropriate FDA trials?"  
  
"The FDA is part of the medical establishment—"  
  
"I hear you!" Charles interrupted, shooting Daria an annoyed look. "Trust me, as a small business owner, there's nothing I hate more than the government breathing down my back.  
  
"And that's why I thought we should talk. I've already ordered some VitaCleanse A. Everything about it sounds amazing. But I've worked with people in your industry before, and the FDA looks for any excuse it can find to shut you guys down. They hate competition."  
  
"Yeah, no kidding," Mr. Morgan said.  
  
"Sometimes, you have to choose your battles. The important thing is that you get VitaCleanse A out there, to help the people who need it. And I think the best way to do that is to focus on the product."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"As in, forget the doctors, forget the government. I mean, just think about health insurance. It costs a fortune to get all these procedures, and we're still sick. The people already know that they can't trust the establishment. What they want is a solution."  
  
Charles sounded like a trusted friend, the kind you turned to for guidance or help when the chips were down. The kind who didn't just like you, but looked out for you.  
  
Daria couldn't tell if she was impressed or creeped out.  
  
"VitaCleanse A is a solution!"  
  
"Exactly! So I think it'd be best to focus on that. Plus, we can have some more keyword-rich content, PPC ads based around keywords like 'natural health' or 'vitamin supplement'. As much as I wish it were otherwise, 'evils of the medical establishment' just isn't a good keyword."  
  
The other end fell silent for a minute. "Look, I want to show these jackasses that their chemical cures aren't going to help anyone!"  
  
"And you will," Charles said. "VitaCleanse A will. I believe in this product. But don't pick a fight until you're ready. The government loves to hassle guys like us, they hate that we do what they do better than them. And if the ebook talks too much about how bad they are… well, they'll notice and they'll shut you down. I've seen it happen before. But, if you build up your strength, get a following with VitaCleanse—"  
  
"VitaCleanse A!"  
  
"Right, right, VitaCleanse A. You could be like the Donald Trump of vitamin supplements. And then, you'll be in a much better position to fight back."  
  
Mr. Morgan sighed, sounding like a disappointed child. "Okay. But tell them that VitaCleanse A is al all-natural, chemical-free—"  
  
"We will, Mr. Morgan, we will."  
  
"Get to work then!"  
  
The line clicked. Charles fell back in his chair, his face masked with sweat.  
  
"I see that social niceties still aren't your forte," Charles said.  
  
"Neither is helping scammers."  
  
The phone rang. Charles looked at the screen. "Mr. Harris is demanding my time, it seems. I need to take this. Focus on the ebook—I've cleaned it up as much as I can."  
  
Daria hesitated.   
  
_No worse than helping a personal injury lawyer. At least you won't be spreading lies about avoiding doctors._  
  
"Sure."  
  
Yet she already regretted it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**  
  
Daria managed to finish half of the ebook by the end of the day. Not that it really did much to ease her anxiety. Neither did the pile of articles still demanding her attention.  
  
Getting ready to clock out, she saw Charles standing by the machine.  
  
"Glad I caught you. Do you have a few minutes? I wanted to talk to you about Mr. Morgan."  
  
She studied him. He looked sincere.  
  
"Can I put this conversation on overtime?"  
  
He grinned. "I'm not _that_ generous."  
  
"It was worth a shot." She inserted the time card, which the machine accepted with a loud click.  
  
"I was going to go to the café on the first floor to grab some coffee—I'll be staying here for a while longer. If you don't mind waiting, I can get some for you and bring it back up."  
  
Daria glanced at the front office. Linda was already gone for the day.  
  
"Actually," she said, "let's just have our meeting at the café."  
  
"That works for me."  
  
The Brant Business Center Café looked as much like a Starbucks as was possible without veering into copyright infringement. They both ordered drinks and took seats at a round table at the edge of the café.  
  
"What do you want to talk about?" Daria asked. Best to be direct.  
  
"Are you okay with working on this client?"  
  
"Does it matter if I am? Unless you have some other writer…"  
  
"I don't, and I can't really afford one," he said. "But I don't want you to have to do something you're uncomfortable with."  
  
Daria shrugged. "Like I said, it doesn't really matter."  
  
Her mind flashed back to a similar conversation she'd had with Patricia, four years ago. This felt different, though.  
  
"Sometimes it doesn't. I can't always be choosy about my clients. If I don't help them get better rankings, someone else will."  
  
"If someone's going to get their hands dirty anyway, it might as well be you, right?"  
  
She immediately wished she hadn't said that. Questionable business practices aside, he had hired her even after she'd broken every interview rule in the book—rules she hated following.  
  
Daria thought about her mom. Would she have tolerated that kind of behavior from her secretary? Fear of Helen's wrath had stamped itself into Marianne's voice and posture, leaving her a pale ghost of an employee.  
  
Charles let her get away with a lot.  
  
"Sorry—" she started.  
  
Charles waved it off. "You're fine. I'm not angry at you. But I do find that things work better when people are comfortable with what they're doing."  
  
"And since I'm not comfortable, you're going to fire me?"  
  
He suddenly looked hurt, and Daria again regretted speaking too quickly.  
  
_This is not the sort of thing I usually regret._  
  
"Not at all! Your phoneside manner lives something to be desired, but you actually helped out quite a lot, today. Mr. Morgan's wild claims would have gotten him into trouble sooner or later."  
  
"Which means he wouldn't be able to pay you," she said.  
  
"And then I wouldn't be able to pay you, or Linda."  
  
Again, Daria thought of her mother. The family owed its prosperity to the proceeds of frivolous lawsuits. The house back in Lawndale, Daria's Raft tuition, the occasional gift money Daria got to make sure she fed herself and stayed comfortable… all of that came from compromise.  
  
Not wanting to look Charles directly in the eyes, she turned her gaze down to the coffee. "I'm aware. I'm okay with what we're doing. It's just not what I expected."  
  
"Me neither. Starting a business, you dream of proving yourself. To hell with their rules and favors, you know you've got what it takes! But as time goes on, you realize you don't always have as many choices as you'd like."  
  
"Just like in college," she said. She'd come into Lawndale High too pessimistic to really be disappointed—but she'd had hopes for Raft, however half-hearted.  
  
"University life was a bit of a letdown." Charles leaned closer. "Did you ever get the feeling that the people there just weren't as smart as they were supposed to be?"  
  
Daria thought about for a bit. Sure, most of them didn't read or think as much as her. But they knew how to play the game of life a lot more effectively.  
  
Who was to say she was the smart one?  
  
"I don't know about that. I think what I wanted was a place where the things I cared about actually mattered. I went to college hoping it'd be a place where I could talk about literature and philosophy and have people who know what I was talking about—or who at least wanted to learn about it. Then it turns out that college was just high school all over again. But at least the idiots in high school didn't pretend to be geniuses."  
  
Heat crept into her cheeks. Why the hell was she admitting this to her boss? But once she started…  
  
Charles nodded. "Sounds like Yale. Everyone's on a trust fund, preparing to take daddy's place at this or that company."  
  
"But not you," Daria said, still looking down at her coffee. Was he gloating?  
  
"Could have been, if my dad had played his cards differently. I didn't go to him with the intent of cutting myself off—alas, it just worked out that way."  
  
"You struck out on your own, and that's braver than most. Given how much you've got riding on this company, I can't blame you for taking clients where you find them."  
  
_And that's about as much heart-to-heart as I can take today._  
  
Daria took her coffee and stood up. "It's getting late."  
  
"Okay, hope I didn't keep you too long. One thing before you go: I didn't just hire you for your writing ability."  
  
At once, she flashed back to a thousand bad pick-up lines. Her shoulders bunched up, fingers tightening around her cup.  
  
_Please don't spoil this._  
  
"I also hired you since I knew I could count on you to be honest. I take pride in this company, and I want it to be as good as possible. You're part of that."  
  
Tension left her, and she gave a noncommittal shrug.  
  
"There's no way I'd be able to suppress my judgmental tendencies for the sake of a job. So thanks."  
  
Daria reflected on her day as she walked out of the building. In a way, Charles wasn't so different. They hadn't talked about high school, but his experience probably had been like hers, marked by loneliness and frustration. He just hadn't handled it as well.  
  
But how well would she have handled it without Jane? So far as she could tell, Charles never had any friends in high school, except maybe for his cousins.  
  
Working for sketchy clients still didn't sit well with her, but she understood the necessity. Charles actually appreciated her for who she was, and that's not something she could expect from most employers. She had to hand it to him: he'd known exactly what to say.  
  
Just like he'd known what to say to Mr. Morgan.  
  
Daria quickened her pace, no longer in such a good mood.  
  
*********  
  
Daria wrote plenty. But she never _wrote_.  
  
The end of the workday always brought relief—the promise of a few quiet hours she could spend pursuing her own obsessions. But writing no longer numbered among them.  
  
At home, the glare of the computer screen bruised her eyes. Tired fingers rested on the keyboard, never quite jumping into the flurry of typing she always displayed at the office.  
  
The one time she did start to write, on the last weekend of September, she saw the SEO-friendly style creeping into her prose. "flesh-eating bacteria" popped up in each paragraph, as if a keyword written just often enough to be noticed, but not so often as to trip the spam sensors. Metaphors and similes fell away in the rush to finish the next neatly-written, plot-heavy paragraph.  
  
Daria raised her tired eyes to the ceiling. On the rare occasions she could write, she sounded like the SEO copywriter that she was.  
  
Closing the word processor without saving, Daria turned her attentions to Tutuola's _The Palm-Wind Drinkard_ , and lost herself in its pages.  
  
She joined Charles and Linda for dinner the next Friday, the three of them again sitting down at Tong's Noodle Hut.  
  
"I've brought you here, to these hallowed and spice-scented halls—" Charles started.  
  
"MSG-scented halls," Daria corrected.  
  
He grinned. "Fair enough! So yes, I've brought to the hallowed and incense-shrouded halls of our sanctuary to let you all know that WebVision 2.0 is embarking on a bold new phase of development—"  
  
"Ooh, is it reputation management?" Linda chimed in.  
  
Crestfallen, Charles looked around the table. "You people won't let me have any fun. Yes, it is reputation management."  
  
Something about the name troubled Daria, but she said nothing.  
  
"I heard you talking about it," Linda said.  
  
"What is this?" Daria asked.  
  
Charles straightened up, going back into announcement mode. "Well, sometimes, someone, through no fault of their own, gets a bad reputation. This could be the work of bitter rivals, jealous suitors, what have you.  
  
"Yet stories testifying to the deficiency of one's character can be a considerable problem. A perfectly skilled accountant might find his presence diminished by a few curated negative stories."  
  
"I see," Daria said. "And what if they deserve their bad reputations?"  
  
Charles shrugged. "I'll do what I can to avoid those kinds of clients. But this is a growth industry within Internet marketing. By creating quality content that puts our reputation management clients in a good light, we can push down the lies and slander."  
  
"We can't make them go away." Everything on the Internet stayed there, in one form or another.  
  
"True, but the bad stuff is as good as gone if it's on the second or third page of search results. No one ever looks beyond the first ten."  
  
"I do," Daria said. Not getting a response, she turned her attention to the noodles.  
  
"Anyhow, we'll start doing some exploratory reputation management next week," Charles continued. "A toast?"  
  
He held up his Styrofoam soda cup. Linda enthusiastically raised her own, the two soft vessels touching.  
  
Still dwelling on the ramifications of reputation management, it took Daria a little longer to join in, her brow knitted in thought.  
  
She didn't see any of the new developments the next week. Instead, just reams of the same old articles. On Thursday, Capote's old jab floated up in her consciousness:  
  
"It isn't writing at all; it's typing."  
  
Was Charles telling the truth about wanting well-written content? She thought back to the Upchuck of old: sleazy, underhanded, willing to do anything to get ahead and rendered harmless only by his ineptitude.  
  
On the other hand, he had been smart. Smart, lonely, and far more shunned than her.  
  
_Shunned with good reason. Let's not start feeling bad for the guy._  
  
Still, maybe he did see value in quality. That'd explain why he ditched college; the same sharp disappointment she knew too well. All part and parcel of a world that just wanted you to churn something out, faster than before.  
  
_Except that's exactly what I am doing. It's not like anyone's going to actually read these articles._  
  
So no, he didn't really care.  
  
Thoughts of reputation management weighed on her mind all the way home.  
  
She finished dinner, a plate of reheated mac and cheese, without any clearer idea of what she wanted to do.  
  
Her phone rang, and seeing Jane's name on the screen shooed away all built-up anxiety. This was the best call she could have gotten.  
  
"Hey," she said.  
  
"Yo," Jane answered, but without her breezy confidence.  
  
The tension returned. Something was wrong.  
  
"I haven't heard from you in a while. Art keeping you busy?"  
  
"That's some of it. Look, Daria, there's something I need to get off my chest. This is why you haven't seen or heard much of me the past month. It's…"

She trailed off.  
  
"Go on. It's okay," Daria said, knowing it wasn't.  
  
"No, it isn't. Look, I thought I was over this. But when I saw you with George… all that stuff with Tom came back."  
  
"Was that why you were so nervous that morning?"  
  
"You could tell, huh? But you didn't think that was why?" Jane's voice turned flat, harsh.  
  
Daria shook her head, as if to clear it. "No. I was confused—"  
  
"Sorry. I'm not mad at you, Daria. You didn't do anything wrong. It's just that… everything feels so similar. George _is_ a lot like Tom. And guys like that always seem to end up liking you."  
  
"Jane, I only met him—"  
  
"I know! And I know I'm being paranoid. Just like I was paranoid that last time, except it turned out my paranoia was right! I _need_ this work out for me."  
  
"I promise," Daria said, "that I have zero interest in George. I won't hurt you like that again."  
  
Jane exhaled on the other end. "Yeah. Things are tough right now. Not much money's coming in. I haven't even talked with anyone in my family for months, and they're all broke or too wrapped up in their own bullshit to help me."  
  
_All that, and you've still been helping me._  
  
"George makes it go away, at least for a while. I feel like I can just be who I am around him."  
  
A lump formed in Daria's throat, and she didn't know what to say.  
  
"That's why I haven't been talking much, lately. I'm not mad at you, Daria. You haven't done anything wrong. It's all me. But I can't escape me."  
  
"Are we still friends?" Daria blurted out, suddenly dizzy.  
  
"Yeah. But I need some time to myself. I'll call when you I'm up for it, okay? You do matter to me. A lot. I'm just confused right now."  
  
Jane hung up.  
  
Daria put her phone back on her desk and sat down on the chair. Her chest burned so she breathed in, the inhalations soon turning to desperate gasps. She bent over her knees, hands clutching the armrests as she struggled to get air. Vision narrowed to a bright tunnel.  
  
Some distant part of brain reminded her that she was hyperventilating, and that she ought to do something about it.  
  
She forced herself to slow her breathing. Nerves begged her to take in more, but she resisted. Finally, her body returned to normal.  
  
Her mind didn't.  
  
She just wanted the night to be over so she could lose herself in work the next day.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**  
  
Reputation management turned out to be relatively painless. The first client, a sign-maker named Natalie Horowitz, simply needed help squashing reviews left by an irate client.  
  
Properly linked good reviews drove down the bad ones. And good reviews for Sunny Signs Inc. weren't hard to find. Daria simply wrote a few "informative" articles that quoted the good reviews, and placed them on the right content dissemination sites.  
  
One link led to another, and over time, Natalie's reputation improved.  
  
Beyond that, things remained the same at work. Daria holed up in her office with a cup of coffee and typed until the day ended. Sometimes she joined Charles and Linda for Friday dinner, but she usually headed straight home.  
  
No word from Jane. Daria sometimes considered calling her, but decided against it. Her friend wanted time for herself, and Daria respected that.  
  
October came and went.  
  
The first Saturday of November dawned cold and bright. Shapeless in her thick green winter coat, Daria left her apartment and got on the subway heading toward the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.  
  
It beat staying home all day.  
  
At the museum, she drifted from gallery to gallery for a few hours, never staying in one for long. Nothing held her attention. Her gaze slid off the Rembrandts and Winslow Homers, the legendary works registering as incoherent masses of colors and brushstrokes.  
  
Each step got harder than the last. Exhausted, she sat down on a wooden bench in front of John Singer Sargent's "The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit". Sore eyes saw past the girls and focused on the shadows of the background hallway past the monstrous vases, and she imagined the dusty warmth of old and lived-in homes, where rooms echoed with the voices of residents past and present. The Boit house seemed to reach out from the canvas and envelop her, ushering her into its safe and comforting darkness.  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
It took Daria a moment to respond. Looking to her right, she saw a middle-aged woman in the uniform of the museum staff.  
  
"We're closing soon, ma'am," she said.  
  
Mumbling an apology, Daria got up. She checked the time on her phone, and saw it was 4:43 PM. She'd been sitting there for hours.  
  
A new reputation management client reached Daria's desk the following Tuesday. Just reading the name, Dr. Jason Martz, sent a shiver of doubt through her.  
  
_And why would a doctor need reputation management?_  
  
She Googled his name, and the first result led to a 2004 story from the Cincinnati Enquirer. "Drunk Plastic Surgeon Scars Patient," the headline screamed.  
  
_This should be good._  
  
Dr. Martz's bad reputation came from an inebriated liposuction. The news article described him nodding off during the procedure. The untended aspirator sucked away the fat, and then proceeded to consume flesh. No word on why the orderlies didn't intervene. The patient survived, though scarred for life.  
  
Daria clicked back, and did an image search for the same. Some pictures showed Dr. Martz, an unremarkable blond man with a receding hairline. Others showed the aftermath of his patient, his sunken abdomen crisscrossed with brutal black lines.  
  
"Why did you do this?" she asked, not sure if she meant the question for Dr. Martz, or for Charles.  
  
Opening the initial email, she read more about Dr. Martz's intent. No sign of penitence, just a desire to become a medical consultant.  
Wouldn't want that pesky drunken surgery to get in the way of a fat consultancy fee.  
  
Just like before, Daria stood up and walked to Charles's office. She prepared herself for what she'd hear—something convincing, something soothing.  
It wouldn't be enough.  
  
Linda looked up from her computer as Daria walked past the desk.  
  
"Charles is meeting with a client right now—"  
  
"Now he's meeting with me," Daria said. Not bothering to acknowledge Linda's outraged squeak, she pushed on the ajar door.  
  
Charles sat at his computer, talking to Dr. Martz's face on the monitor.  
  
"I'll be upfront with you," Charles said. "This will be a challenge, but I'm confident we can do it."  
  
Dr. Martz raised a glass of what looked like whiskey to his lips, his image blurring slightly.  
  
"I'll drink to that," he said.  
  
Daria studied the monitor. The doctor sat at what looked like a rather lavish home office. Framed doctorates hung from walls papered with interlacing floral designs, and a window looked out onto a lush garden.  
  
"Excuse me. Isn't drinking what got you into trouble in the first place?" Daria said.  
  
Charles almost jumped from his seat as he looked back over his shoulder, his jaw dropping in surprise.  
  
_Well, I'm fired._  
  
Dr. Martz's watery blue eyes flickered to her, his thin lips curling up in a predatory smile.  
  
"Oh, don't fret," he said. "I'm starting a new program tomorrow. Figured I should live it up while I can."  
  
"It's, uh, tough to quit the drink. I fell off the wagon a few times, but just kept going forward," Charles said. "I've been clean for, uh, four months!"  
  
Dr. Martz took another sip. "Sure, why not. Who are you?" he asked, looking again at Daria. "Wait, let me guess. Glasses, unkempt hair—ah, you must be the copywriter."  
  
"At your service," Daria said, keeping her tone as flat as possible.  
  
"Just stay away from customer service." Dr. Martz chuckled at his own joke. "Anyway, I've got a few rounds at the golf course slated for today. Take care."  
  
"You too, Jason."  
  
The screen went blank and Charles closed the video conferencing window before swiveling around to face Daria.  
  
"What the hell was that?"  
  
It occurred to her that she'd never seen Charles angry before. All traces of the scrawny teenager in loud clothes vanished, in his place a man with a set jaw and narrowed eyes.  
  
She wasn't intimidated. "You're seriously going to work with this butcher? Did you see what he did to his patient?"  
  
Some of the anger faded. "I did. I suspected you might have a problem with it, and was going to have a talk with you after I was done with Dr. Martz."  
  
_A talk that probably won't happen now. Whatever. I'll just go back to my apartment—_  
  
Thoughts of the weekend came back. What next? Spend her week _days_ zoning out at the museum? The museum stayed open later those days, she could stare at a painting well past sundown if she wanted.  
  
"Am I fired?" she asked, no longer sure what answer she wanted to hear.  
  
"I might have fired you if Dr. Martz had been offended. Happily, he seemed to take your interruption in stride. We'll have the talk now. I know you won't be comfortable with this. I don't like Dr. Martz, either.  
  
"But the fact remains that we need clients. If we don't take him, someone else will. And it's not like he's trying to get back into the operating room. I doubt he can do much harm as a consultant."  
  
"He mutilated his patient and just wants that swept under the rug," Daria said.  
  
"Yes, we've already established that. Right now, hiring a freelance writer isn't an option for me. I've got too much invested in too many other projects. I'd prefer it if you did this. However, if it offends you so much, I'll write the articles. I don't have to pay myself any overtime, after all.  
  
"In return, you just do the research. Your writing won't be associated with Dr. Martz. That I can promise you."  
  
Daria stood there for a while, wondering how to respond.  
  
_Why couldn't you just fire me? Force me to go back into isolation._  
  
"Can I think about it for a moment?"  
  
Charles rolled his eyes. "Fine. But let me know tomorrow."  
  
"Also, are you really a recovering alcoholic?"  
  
He looked uncertain for a moment, and then took on resigned expression. "No, actually. I said that to put him at ease; people are often self-conscious. Though I think I misjudged him. He clearly doesn't care."  
  
"I see. I'll get back to work."  
  
All Daria's righteousness fled as she walked out of Charles's office, closing the door behind her. Linda glared at her from behind her desk.  
  
"Can you tell me where you get off acting like that?" she asked, her voice a knife's edge above a whisper.  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"I mean just storming into your boss's office to yell at him and a client—"  
  
Linda shook her head, and took an exasperated breath. "Do you have any idea how lucky you are to have a boss as nice as Charles? In any other company, you'd have been fired after a week for acting the way you do. The only reason you even got the job was because you were his high school buddy or something—frankly, it's hard to imagine you having any friends at all."  
  
Not bothering to reply, Daria returned to her office. Work would drive it away. Since Dr. Martz could wait, she focused on normal articles and onpage optimization.  
  
Charles came by near the end of the day.  
  
"Daria, do you have a minute?"  
  
No.  
  
"Sure." She sighed and turned to face her boss.  
  
"I try not to get angry," Charles said. "But you can't interrupt me like that again."  
  
"I won't," she said, instantly disappointed with how easily she caved.  
  
_Maybe this is how mom got started. All that hippy idealism gone in an instant._  
  
But she couldn't let it go that easily. "Earlier, you said that you wanted to be proud of what WebVision 2.0 did. If that's the case, how do you justify working with Dr. Martz?"  
  
"I also said that sometimes we don't have as much choice as we'd like. We need every advantage we can get."  
  
"I see."  
  
"And I do believe in second chances." His features relaxed, and he suddenly looked like a teenager again. Charles was still skinny, his head a bit too big for his body. "I remember how horribly I behaved in high school. Upchuck was a name I richly deserved. You agreeing to work for me—giving me a second chance to be a decent person—meant a lot."  
  
That was unexpected. "Wait. By working for you I gave _you_ a second chance?"  
  
"I think so. I know I did nothing to earn your trust back in the day, but you still thought you'd try having me as your boss. Which is why I want to be a good one."  
  
"Okay, that's fair. But Dr. Martz isn't acknowledging his past mistakes. He's trying to sweep them under the rug. That doesn't sound like asking for a second chance."  
  
Charles shrugged. "Maybe. But sometimes a second chance is what we need to get better."  
  
_Like if Jane called and told me things were okay, and that I didn't have to worry, and we could just go back to the way things were in that summer between sophomore and junior year when nothing mattered._  
  
Suddenly faint, Daria gripped her armrests. No sense in losing composure in front of Charles.  
  
"Is that why you hired me?" she asked, struggling to keep her voice steady but pretty sure she succeeded. "For a second chance?"  
  
"No. I hired you for the reasons I said I did. You're skilled, and you're honest. But I do appreciate being given a second chance."  
  
"Right." Daria looked away from him, focusing on her screen. "Thank you for not firing me."  
  
The words tasted like oil in her mouth. But what else could she say?  
  
"It's okay. You're fine, but you can't do that again. I'm headed to meet with a potential client. Think about whether you want to write the articles or not, and have an answer for me tomorrow."  
  
Daria just nodded, not sure how to even begin figuring that out.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**  
  
By the time she got home, Daria realized that she needed to talk to someone. Twice, she selected Jane's name from her miniscule contacts list, her finger hovering over the talk button.  
  
Twice she changed her mind.  
  
She didn't know what kind of response she'd get. Was Jane giving her a second chance? Or would it be third chance, at this point?  
  
Mom was the next choice. Except Daria already knew what she'd say—that a young woman like Daria needed to make the most out of each opportunity. The ethics of the situation never mattered much to her.  
  
Quinn might tell Daria to stick to her guns. She was still fashion-conscious enough to feel real fear at the thought of a tipsy plastic surgeon. But that didn't get to the heart of the situation.  
  
She'd made a few friends at Raft, none of whom she'd talked to since graduation. Nor had they made any attempt to get in touch with her, which maybe was understandable. As for her roommates, she barely knew them.  
  
The last time she'd talked to Kevin had been in July, when he'd told her about his new job as a warehouse stocker, his enthusiasm bleeding through each malapropism. No way to explain the situation to him, however.  
  
Daria needed more than just a yes or no as to whether she should quit. She needed someone who might actually understand the situation.  
  
Sans Jane, she had one option.  
  
The phone rang twice before anyone answered.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Hi, Tom? This is Daria."  
  
"Daria? Oh, hey! I haven't talked to you in, uh, quite a while. How are things? Still in Boston?"  
  
"Fine, and yes. Do you have a minute?"  
  
"Yeah, of course."  
  
He sounded confused. Somehow, he also sounded smug. Daria gathered her thoughts, and hoped it'd all make sense once she spoke.  
  
"I'm trying to figure something out, and I needed some help."  
  
"Okay, shoot."  
  
She paused.  
  
"Daria?" Tom asked.  
  
"I'm here. It's about Jane—"  
  
_You called to ask him about what he thought of you losing your backbone and choosing to stay in a corrupt industry, not about your fight with your best friend._  
  
"—I mean, about work. It's about my work," she said.  
  
Exhausted, she waited a moment to collect her thoughts.  
  
"I'm confused. Is this about Jane or work?"  
  
"Didn't I just say it's about work?"  
  
"You didn't sound too sure. Are you okay?" he asked, taking the tone a parent would take at a petulant child.  
  
"I'm fine!" she retorted. "But I'd like some feedback."  
  
"All right," he said, his tone soothing. "Where do you work?"  
  
"At a place that helps liars hide their misdeeds."  
  
"Oh, so a law firm."  
  
_Same sarcastic Tom._  
  
She scowled. "This is all a big joke to you, isn't it."  
  
"Hold on, hold on. I was just trying to—"  
  
She'd had enough. "Lighten things up? Like _you've_ ever had to make an ethical choice. You can buy your way out of anything."  
  
"All right," Tom said, his tone no longer friendly. "I don't know what's going on. But I'm not going to continue this conversation if you're just going to get angry at me without any explanation. I'm not perfect, but I try to be ethical—"  
  
"Like when you cheated on Jane?"  
  
"Wait, are you serious? You were _her_ best friend and—"  
  
Daria hung up. Calling Tom had been a mistake.  
  
The phone rang again, Tom's name on the screen. She let it ring until it stopped.  
  
He didn't try a second time.  
  
Daria turned her thoughts to the situation at hand. Quitting meant the end of what little social life she had—and Linda had probably been right about other workplaces not putting up with her the way she was.  
  
Two choices remained: write the articles, or fob them off on Charles. The latter didn't satisfy her. She wasn't really taking a stand, just making someone else do the dirty work.  
  
The best option was to cover up for a whiskey-breathed surgeon.  
  
She arrived at work early the next morning. Charles was already at his desk, typing an email.  
  
Daria knocked on the doorframe, and Charles turned around.  
  
"Good morning! How are things?"  
  
"I've decided to write the articles. And I'm sorry for yesterday." The words came out in a rush, but she meant each and everyone.  
  
_I do feel a bit better._  
  
Charles smiled. "Don't worry about yesterday, no lasting harm was done. And thanks for agreeing to this. Dr. Martz is a challenging client when it comes to reputation management. Several Cincinnati-area newspapers reported on his, ah, mishap, and those newspapers have a strong search engine presence."  
  
"Is he trying to be a consultant in Cincinnati?" Daria asked. "He should move somewhere else. That'd be easier to separate himself from those articles."  
  
"Ah, spoken like a true SEO artist! Alas, Dr. Martz owns a great deal of property in Cincinnati—he was born wealthy, and has only gotten richer. Thus, he wants to stay. The good news is that all those articles are several years old, and Google adores novelty."  
  
"Meaning that they'll prioritize new stories."  
  
"Yes, provided they're properly implemented. At any rate, I think Dr. Martz has fallen off the radar so to speak. If some news organ picked up on him again, there might be a problem, but what are the odds of that happening?"  
  
"Pretty low. I'll get started."  
  
And she did. Her keyboard clicked with clear alacrity over the next few days, her mind focused on the problem at hand. Reputation management _did_ call for an artist. She needed to make him sound good, but not be too gushy about it. Good stories about Dr. Martz—his successful residency, numerous happy patients—bolstered Daria's descriptions.  
  
By Friday, the first phase of the campaign was complete. Slowly but surely, the new articles would gain traction and push out the old. Dr. Martz's misdeeds would land in the desolate wasteland beyond the first page of results.  
  
She got home, took off her coat and boots, and lay down on her bed. Was this adulthood? It didn't feel so bad.  
  
Growing up meant changing. She wasn't the person she was as a kid—someone who turned wearing glasses into a moral issue, who refused to give in to the world's superficial demands, who fought back against commercialization, who never compromised or pretended to feel something she didn't, her honesty bright and hard and sharp like a _weapon_ used against the crowd, used against a life of quiet desperation and conformity.  
  
Daria screamed.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**  
  
The knock on her door brought Daria back to awareness.  
  
"Hey, are you okay?" came the voice of Alice, her roommate.  
  
Daria shook herself. "Yeah," she said. "I hit my hand against the desk. I'm fine."  
  
"Oh, okay."  
  
She heard footsteps as Alice walked somewhere else. Daria realized she was covered in sweat.  
  
Maybe she should call her mom.  
  
She shook her head. That wouldn't solve anything.  
  
Over the course of a week, she'd thrown away everything she ever valued. All for a mediocre job that now revolved around protecting a butcher.   
  
_Do any war criminals need reputation management? If so, Daria Morgendorffer is the woman for the job._  
  
Later that night, when she'd regained some composure, she turned on the computer. First, she set up a dummy email account on Yahoo. Then, she set up a username on the Sick Sad World website. She'd visited the place countless times, but had never done anything more than read.   
  
She found what she wanted, and smiled.  
  
"Oldies but Baddies: Share the Worst News that We Missed!"  
  
And they'd missed Dr. Martz.   
  
Opening up a word document, she thought about how to present this. Sick Sad World liked things quick, ghoulish, and to the point.  
  
"And you thought plastic surgeons were supposed to make you look BETTER!" she wrote.  
  
Daria fiddled with her article for the next hour. She placed pictures of the patient's scarred torso just beneath the headline. If it bleeds, it leads. She added links to the news articles reporting on the plastic surgeons misdeeds—if enough people clicked there, those articles would shoot back up the rankings. The writing she kept simple, discarding her normally scrupulous punctuation. Good writing might lead this back to her.  
  
Sick Sad World was a start, but more remained to be done. She created accounts on Digg and Reddit and made posts linking to the Sick Sad World story. Each account she made received a personality: she adopted Quinn's gushy style for the Digg post, and used her father's sense of outrage, complete with a "dammit!" or two, for the Reddit post.  
  
Three new personalities whipped up in one evening, and unleashed onto the world.   
  
_Maybe this is what being a published writer feels like._  
  
Once done, she took a long shower and went to bed, sleeping better than she'd had for months.  
  
Cold sleet lashed Boston all weekend. Daria immersed herself in her warm apartment, drinking tea and reading Kaplan's _Balkan Ghosts_. Occasionally, she returned to one of her new online guises, commenting on unrelated stories. Might as well make this look real, after all.  
  
Meanwhile Google worked its magic, dredging up the truth for a new generation.  
  
At lunch on Monday, she stopped by Charles's desk.  
  
"How's our favorite hard-drinking medical professional doing?" she asked, eager for news of disaster.  
  
Charles shook his head. "Not well. Word of his old misdeeds has resurfaced."  
  
His eyes narrowed for a moment. Suspicion?  
  
"Hmm. Maybe I should put together some new articles?"  
  
"There are ways we can fight this. I'm scheduled to chat with Dr. Martz later today, where we'll formulate a strategy."  
  
He sounded less confident than usual.  
  
Daria focused on normal content articles for the next few days, never hearing anything about Dr. Martz. Hopefully he'd fired WebVision 2.0, and the company could go on to less objectionable clients.  
  
On Friday, Charles called everyone in for a meeting. They gathered in the front room. Linda sat at her desk, while Daria leaned against the wall, her arms crossed. Charles entered, his mouth set in a straight and solemn line. No trace of his ebullience remained.  
  
Daria tensed, and shifted her position. Tension tightened her nerves.  
  
 _This is going to be bad news._  
  
"I'll get right to the point," Charles said. "I'm closing WebVision 2.0."  
  
Linda gasped.   
  
"The truth is, we've barely been scraping by. I was hoping that reputation management would act as our savior, but alas, it was not to be. Dr. Martz just told me he would no longer work with us, and a number of other clients have also jumped ship."  
  
"Why did the other ones leave?" Daria asked.   
  
"I lost them to other competitors. WebVision 2.0 is a small outfit, run with pluck and courage, but not many resources. As hard as we work, there's a limit to what we can do with the strategies I've developed. Obviously that means I need to develop better ones, but with how much money I'm losing, there just isn't time." He shrugged. "I’m sorry."  
  
Daria resisted the urge to run out the door and back to her apartment. She wanted to bury her head in a pillow and forget this had ever happened. Nausea bubbled in her bowels, and she pressed against the wall to steady herself.   
  
_I did this._  
  
"We still have several clients. If we cut costs, we might be able to keep going." Daria's words came out in a flat and rapid monotone. She needed something more to say, anything to delay or stop this from happening, to salvage the disaster she'd created.  
  
"It's a losing proposition, I’m afraid. I was relying on getting a few big clients like Dr. Martz—he was my lifesaver. Without him, well, I've nearly drained my personal bank account to keep this company afloat. There's just nothing left."  
  
"Is there anything we can do?" Linda asked. She looked ready to cry.  
  
Daria just wanted to throw up.  
  
"No, and I don't want you to think you have to. Both of you have gone above and beyond. I wish things could be different… but this is what's going to happen. I can employ you both for the next week or so, as we shut down clients and transfer them. It's the best I can do."  
  
Linda gulped, and nodded. Daria closed her eyes, trying not to faint but wanting so very much to do just that, to surrender to oblivion and not think about what she'd done.  
  
 _All you did was expose a crook. And if the other crooks who helped him also suffer, that's good. And if_ you _suffer, because you're_ one _of them, well that's even better._  
  
"If you're so inclined, I'd like to invite you both to dinner at our usual place tonight," Charles said. "We've worked hard, set sail on the wild seas of risk, and dared to dream. I'd say that calls for a bit of celebration."  
  
"Of course," Linda said.  
  
Daria just nodded.  
  
The meeting dispersed and Daria returned to her office. She sat down and it was as if a bomb exploded in her head. Arms dropped useless to her sides as the full weight of her choice slammed into her, and she knew that this was her doing. Thoughts of the last few months—the money she'd taken, Charles's clever words, another intruder taking Jane away, the thick black stitches so much like barbed wire woven into the patient's flesh—assaulted her all at once.  
  
She couldn't escape this. No matter where she went or what she said, she'd brought down WebVision 2.0. A corrupt company in a corrupt industry that was still the dream and livelihood of a man who gave her a chance, who gave the paychecks that she cashed while complaining about them, who gave her an outlet when her best friend had given up.  
  
Daria looked for a place to draw the line between right and wrong, but couldn't find one.  
  
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Sentences fell to pieces, the words refusing to fit. Each article sounded dead, even by the paltry standards of SEO content.  
  
Maybe she needed to confess the truth. Tell Charles that she'd been the one to sink the company. Which probably meant more trouble. He might have grounds for a lawsuit.  
  
 _How does that matter? You deserve to be sued._  
  
Did she? If she deserved it, didn't Dr. Martz deserve to be out of a job?  
  
She almost didn't notice when she left the office, trudging to Tong's Noodle Hut in a dazed state. Cars zoomed past on the slick pavement. Charles nattered on about something, Linda laughing as he did; they almost seemed happy.  
  
They ordered their meals at the counter, Daria mumbling out a request for plain white rice, sick at the thought of actually eating it.  
  
"This one's on me, ladies. My way of saying thanks for all the work you did."  
  
"Oh, thanks. But you don't have to do that, Charles," Linda said.   
  
"No, I don't, but I'd like to."  
  
Moments later, she faced Charles across the table. Daria stayed silent. Each heartbeat boomed like a gunshot in her chest. Voices lowered to a dull hum all around her, words murmuring and indistinct. She took a deep breath, and opened her mouth to confess.  
  
Nothing came out.  
  
The meals arrived. She stared at her rice, watching the steam curl and writhe as it rose into the air. Charles and Linda kept talking. She caught snippets—Linda saying she'd work for her sister, Charles optimistic about his chances.  
  
"There are plenty of other SEO companies," he said. "I've got skill, and the legendary Ruttheimer charm."  
  
Charles flashed the same bright and goofy grin he'd sported all through high school, but now shorn of conceit and comfortable in its absurdity. Linda laughed, and sighed.  
  
"It was fun," Linda said.  
  
And Daria sat, enjoying a meal at her boss's expense after sinking his company.  
  
No more.  
  
She pushed her chair back, the legs scraping against the linoleum floor as she stood up.  
  
"I reported Dr. Martz to Sick Sad World," Daria said.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**  
  
Daria sat on the floor of her room, her back against the bed. Drawn blinds blotted out the sunlight, leaving her in the comforting shadows.  
  
It was Sunday afternoon, and she hadn't spoken to anyone since her confession on Friday night. She'd just stood there and listened as Charles shouted. His words escaped her—she only recalled how his face turned red, his eyes filled with a real hurt that she'd never imagined possible for him.  
  
All the other patrons had turned and stared, and she remembered confessing to Jane back in high school. It had looked and felt the same.  
  
Finally, she had turned and walked out of the restaurant while Charles continued yelling invective, joined by Linda. She roamed the city for a while, walking past the endless glowing storefronts.  
  
At some point, she'd gone home.  
  
Charles still owed her the last paycheck, but she suspected it was best just to let that go.  
  
_No more dirty money._  
  
And what jobs awaited her in the future? Would they be any different? She wished she believed in God, so that she could join a convent. Except, somehow, she suspected she'd run into the same human problem there.  
  
The phone rang. Daria let it ring a few times before getting up and walking to her desk. She pressed the talk button and raised it to her ear.  
  
"Hello?" came Jane's voice.  
  
Daria almost dropped the phone. Pressure squeezed her chest as she imagined why Jane might have called, each scenario worse than the last.  
  
"Uh, hi," Daria uttered.  
  
"Is everything okay?"  
  
She didn't sound mad.  
  
"No," Daria said, after thinking about it for a bit. "I destroyed WebVision 2.0."  
  
"Wait, is that a good thing or a bad thing?"  
  
"I don't know. Could we meet? I need to talk about this."  
  
Jane had every right to refuse…  
  
"Yeah, yeah. My shift just ended."  
  
"Okay. I'll be at your place in about an hour."  
  
Daria hung up, and an almost staggering sense of relief washed over her. At least she could tell someone.  
  
Grabbing her things, Daria stepped out onto Boston's cold wet streets. The setting sun shone bright between fleets of black clouds.  
  
Daria stopped at a grocery store to pick up a modestly priced bottle of wine.  
  
Rain was falling again by the time she reached the old brick apartment building that Jane called home. A creaking elevator took Daria up to the door of unit 303, and she knocked.  
  
Jane invited her in, raising an eyebrow when she saw the bottle.  
  
"Did our bar-hopping adventure finally corrupt you?" she asked.  
  
"I wish. What corrupted me was far more pathetic," Daria said.  
  
Sitting down on the couch, Daria explained the events of the past few months. Jane poured some of the wine into a pair of chipped ceramic mugs. A few sips made the situation much easier to explain.  
  
"And that's how it happened," Daria said. "I took money to cover up the crimes of a plastic surgeon and got so angry about it that I destroyed Charles's livelihood in a fit of self-righteousness."  
  
Jane leaned back on the couch, her blue eyes thoughtful.  
  
"First of all," she said, "that Dr. Martz does sound pretty awful. I can't say I like the idea of him getting off scot-free."  
  
"He didn't," Daria corrected. "But he still has a lot of money."  
  
"And it sounds like Charles was still pretty manipulative. You mentioned how he'd lied to Dr. Martz about being an alcoholic."  
  
“Speaking of which…” Daria refilled her cup and offered to do the same for Jane. To her surprise, Jane turned it down.  
  
“Not in the mood for too much tonight, but you go ahead.”  
  
Disappointed, Daria put the bottle down. Her face already felt hot, some of her cares lifting from her shoulders.

 _Easy to slip into this._  
  
"Charles was manipulative,” Daria said. “But he also gave everything up for that company."  
  
"Do you know that for a fact?"  
  
"I guess I don't. I think what scares me is that I can't say I was any better. When I exposed Dr. Martz, it wasn't to protect people, or to avenge his victim. It was just so that I could feel good about myself after all the compromises I made."  
  
"There's plenty of blame to go around," Jane said. "I don't trust Charles, and I don't think you should feel too badly for him. If you're going to feel guilty for anyone, it should probably be for that coworker of yours."  
  
The thought of Linda came like a blow. She’d probably needed that job.  
  
"You're right," she admitted. "I can't make it up to her, either."  
  
"You probably can't."  
  
Silence, for a moment.  
  
"I don't know where to go from here," Daria said. "How do you navigate the corruption of the art world?"  
  
"Same way everyone else does," Jane replied. "I try to stay true to my vision, but compromise when I have to."  
  
Daria sighed. "Adulthood sucks."  
  
Jane didn’t reply. Uncomfortable with the silence, Daria drained her cup and then refilled it with what remained in the bottle.  
  
“Did you… did you work things out with George? And me?" Daria asked.  
  
“I’m still figuring that out.” She sighed and lowered her head. “I know it’s not fair to you, Daria. I know high school was a long time ago. But I guess the whole thing with Tom bothered me more than I wanted to admit. The way you two carried on and I pretended like I was okay with it!”  
  
Daria gripped her cup, the muscles on her back knotting in tension as Jane’s voice rose.  
  
Then, Jane gave an exasperated sigh and shook her head. “Forget it. This is my problem, not yours.”  
  
“No,” Daria said, “it’s my problem, too. I want it to be my problem.”  
  
Jane’s puzzled eyes met Daria’s. “ _What_?”  
  
“This situation with George. You’re my _only_ friend, and I won’t let you down again!” She spoke louder than she intended—or did she? The important thing was to make sure Jane knew how much she mattered.  
  
That as miserable as life was, they’d always have each other’s backs.  
  
“Thanks,” Jane said, her tone neutral. “But you _really_ don’t want my problems, Daria. I can’t just sabotage my job the way you did. If things go bad for you here, you can go home. I can’t.”  
  
Daria gasped. Blushing, she looked down at the wine in her cup, the red so dark it was almost black. She took another drink, feeling her heartbeats echoing all through her body.  
  
“Are you angry at me?” Daria finally asked.  
  
“No. I’m trying to say… I guess George is kind of my lifeline, at least for right now. And I _really_ need a lifeline. Things haven’t been good. The reason I work so much is that my stuff basically sells for pennies. Most of the art dealers I work with are crooks—there are a lot of projects I was _supposed_ to get paid for, but didn’t, because I had no idea how to navigate a contract. I mean, no one _tells_ you these things Daria! They just throw it at you, and if you don’t sign, well there are a thousand other starving artists who will.  
  
“My boss at the café is a creep who keeps hitting on me, and I’m afraid he’ll fire me if I say anything. I’d quit, but then I won’t have enough money for rent—hell, I already don’t have enough money, that’s why I had to take on Vicky. And the landlord might kick me out of if finds out about the extra tenant.  
  
“Then there’s the student debt. It’s getting to the point where I sometimes wish I never went to BFAC. That I’d just stayed home. Got some regular job and kept doing art on the side, like I’d planned to. Sure, BFAC opened up some opportunities, but none of them have been that great. But going back isn’t really an option now.  
  
“So yeah, if I could swap places with you Daria, I would.”  
  
Daria kept her eyes on the wine, not having any idea what to say. BFAC had been her idea.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she finally managed.  
  
“Don’t apologize. It’s just that I’ve got a lot going on. Maybe you can see why I’m afraid of losing the one thing that seems to be working out for me.”  
  
“I’m not interested in George. I’m not really interested in anyone like that,” Daria said. “Please believe me.”  
  
Hadn’t she said something similar, once before?  
  
“I do,” Jane said. “It’s just… sometimes it’s hard.”  
  
“I wanted everything to be like it was.” Tears started, but Daria held them back. Last thing she wanted to be was some sloppy, sobbing mess.  
  
“Yeah. Me too.” Jane paused for a moment. “By the way, you look pretty drunk.”  
  
Even in her state, Daria detected the false cheer in Jane’s voice. She was trying to change the subject.  
  
Daria decided to let her. The conversation drifted to lighter things, and she soon found herself nodding off. She slept on the couch that night, and left after a quick breakfast, Jane promising to keep in touch.  
  
Intermittent rains splashed the streets as Daria took the bus back to her apartment. Once inside, she reflected on her options. She could try for another job or make preparations for grad school. Mom would be thrilled at the latter.  
  
If nothing else, grad school might be a chance to make up for the disappointment of undergrad. She still had time to apply to programs.  
  
What would Charles do? Somehow, Daria suspected he'd told the truth about leaving Yale and angering his father. While she fell back on parental support, he had no choice but to rebuild everything he'd lost through _her_ actions.  
  
She didn't know what the right course of action would have been. But she knew she'd chosen the wrong one.  
  
And while Daria fretted, Jane struggled to stay afloat.  
  
Maybe she always would. Daria would fall into a comfortable rut with comfortable problems while her best and only friend fell deeper and deeper into the mire of reality, the two of them drifting farther apart each year. How could she really relate to what Jane went through?  
  
"I'm sorry," she said, her words feeble even to her.  
  
This was another regret she had to remember and carry with her, so that she didn't repeat the same mistakes. She was _not_ good or righteous, and probably never had been. She’d been lucky. That was all.  
  
Daria turned on her computer and started searching for English grad programs.  
  
She needed to give herself another chance to be good.  
  
**The End**


End file.
